A  VAGABOND'S 
^^  ODYSSEY 


Bu  A. 


A.SAFRDNI-MDDLETON 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 


PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR 


A  VAGABOND'S 
ODYSSEY 


BEING  FURTHER  REMINISCENCES   OF  A  WANDERING 
SAILOR-TROUBADOUR  IN   MANY  LANDS 


BY 

A.  SAFRONI-MIDDLETON 

AUTHOR  OF 
"  SAILOR  AND  BEACHCOMBER  " 


WITH  SIXTEEN  ILLUSTRA  TIONS 
FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,   MEAD   AND   COMPANY 

1916 


PRINTED  IN   GREAT   BRITAIN   BY  THE  RIVERSIDE   PRESS   LIMITED 
EDINBURGH 


TO 
THE    MEMORY   OF    MY    DEAR    COMRADE 

OMAR 

WHOM    I    BURIED    IN   THE   AUSTRALIAN    BUSH 

NORTHERN    QUEENSLAND 

ALSO    TO 

D.  RAELTOA  OF  SAMOA 

AND     TO     MY     MEMORIES     OF     MELODY     AND 
MIRTH    IN    THE    SOUTH    SEAS 


Ifi: 


FOREWORD 

"The  path  to  hell  is  paved  with  good  intentions." 

LOOKING  reflectively  over  this  second  instalment  of  my 
autobiography,  I  perceive  that  I  am  such  a  genuine 
vagabond  that  I  have  even  travelled  along  in  my  remini- 
scences without  caring  for  the  material  niceties  of  recognised 
literary  method  ;  so  I  have  gone  back  over  the  whole  track 
and  tried  earnestly  to  polish  my  efforts. 

It  seems  quite  unnecessary  for  vagabonds  to  wear 
(metaphorically  speaking)  old  trousers  with  fringed  ends  to 
the  legs,  penniless  pockets,  dusty  boots,  an  unshaven  face  and 
dirty  collar,  or  to  give  vent  to  the  devil-may-care  utterances 
and  all  the  ungrammatical  "  politeness  "  of  the  phraseology 
of  the  grog  shanty  and  bush  hotels,  when  they  attempt  to 
live  over  again  on  paper  the  tale  of  their  wandering  life.  I 
cannot  reform  the  world  into  a  population  of  convivial  beach- 
combers, nor  would  I  if  I  could,  out  of  consideration  for 
future  vagabonds,  who  naturally  want  the  outer  spaces  of 
the  world  for  their  special  province.  Neither  can  I  make 
you  believe  I  could  have  done  better  in  a  literary  sense  if  I 
had  taken  more  trouble  with  my  book.  But  I  can  to  some 
extent  reform  myself,  and  at  least  strive  to  compete  with 
the  literary  aristocrats  on  the  slopes  of  their  own  culti- 
vated ground.  I  am  sure  they  will  make  good  company  if 
I  succeed,  and  they  will  have  been  my  best  friends.  Yes,  I 
half  believe  in  jumping  out  of  bed  on  a  cold  night  to  hold  a 
candle  to  the  devil !  I  know  that  sometimes  while  you 
stand  shivering  you  discover  that  he's  really  not  such  a  bad 
fellow,  and  the  candlelight  is  likely  to  give  you  a  glimpse  of 
some  faint  resemblance  in  his  wrinkled  face,  some  far-off 
expression  of  that  beautiful  old  life  that  he  lived  ere  he 
sinned,  became  respectable  and  fell — banished  from  heaven. 

Life  is  a  terrible  contradiction  ;  we  are  dead  because  we 

9 


FOREWORD 


&i'o  barn  alive;  :  Our  v  cry  creed  is  based  on  the  sad  fact  that 
the  cemetery  tablets  record  the  dates  of  the  true  beginning 
of  life  everlasting.  The  thundering  city  is  a  necropolis 
wherein  multitudes  of  wandering  corpses  breathe,  with  inert 
souls  and  thoughts  that  are  like  night  bats  flitting  through 
the  sepulchres  of  our  death,  with  dead  eyes  and  dead  mouths 
that  open  to  cough  and  even  sometimes  laugh  !  My  book  of 
reminiscences  is  (to  me  at  least)  like  those  silent,  moss-grey 
tablets  of  immortality  ;  but  even  more  wonderful  and  true 
(as  far  as  I  know),  for,  while  I  am  dead,  I  can  see  my  long  ago. 
I  can  lift  the  stone  slab  from  the  grave  in  the  silent  night 
and  gaze  on  the  dead  boy's  face,  and  in  a  way  make  the  dead 
eyes  laugh  and  the  voiceless  mouth  mutter  and  sing  in  a 
hollow  voice  old,  far-away  songs  of  love,  romance  and  its 
comrade,  grief.  Yes,  you  and  I  can  see  such  things.  Oh, 
how  ineffably  sad  to  some  of  us ! 

You  may  wonder  what  all  this  has  to  do  with  the  preface 
to  a  book  of  reminiscences.  It  has  a  lot  to  do  with  the 
matter,  because  I  am  a  born  vagabond,  and  the  world  is 
incorrigibly  respectable ! 

There  are  about  one  hundred  pages  missing  from  this 
book — pages  that  should  have  told  of  the  inevitable  details  of 
stern  existence :  those  things  that  all  men  who  are  vagabonds 
experience,  such  as  the  stomach-rumbles  of  hunger,  mon- 
strous hopes  and  misgivings,  hospitals  and  illnesses,  and  cold 
nights  sleeping  out  under  the  coco-palms  and  gum-trees 
when  the  wind  suddenly  shifts  to  a  shivering  quarter.  Evil 
thoughts,  heartaches,  the  tenderest  wishes,  passionate 
dreams,  longings,  and  memories  in  the  night  of  a  woman's 
eyes,  the  fall  before  great  temptation,  atheistical  thoughts, 
curses  and  religious  remorses  you  will  look  for  in  vain.  For, 
after  all,  I  am  not  brave  enough  to  tell  the  truth  !  I  might 
have  done  so  if  I  had  had  the  friendly,  courageous  publisher 
who  would  not  cut  them  out  of  the  original  manuscript. 
But  where  is  the  publisher  who  would  let  me  hide  behind  his 
influential  bulk  as  he  risked  all  and  published  the  truth  ? 
Yes,  those  things  which  would  make  the  reader  recognise  the 
truth  by  his  own  responsive  thrills. 

Well,  I  will  risk  my  reputation  on  the  opinions  of  those 

10 


FOREWORD 

critics  who  will  be  able  to  read  the  hundred  pages  I  have 
left  out.  For  real  scallawags  do  not  always  leave  the 
worst  out  only.  Moreover,  I  may  be  lucky  enough  to  find 
sympathy,  for  even  critics  are  sometimes  at  heart  genuine 
vagabonds,  and  they  may  realise  that  I  have  turned  into 
the  light  of  other  days,  the  stars,  the  blue  tropical  skies, 
moonlit  seas  by  coral  reefs  and  palm-clad  isles,  and  into 
the  heart  of  intense  dreams,  to  paint  faithfully  all  that  I  tell. 

Before  my  North  American  experiences,  which  I  have 
recorded  in  the  opening  chapters  of  this  book,  I  had  shipped 

before  the  mast  of  a  sailing  ship,  the  S p,  at  Sydney, 

N.S.W.,  intending  to  go  with  her  round  the  Horn,  and  so 
home  to  England.  But,  being  unable  to  tolerate  the  bully- 
ing chief  mate  and  the  offal-flavoured  fo'c'sle  food,  I  left  the 
boat  at  'Frisco  and  again  shipped  on  an  American  tramp 
that  was  chartered  for  trading  purposes  to  go  cruising  in  the 
South  Seas,  where  once  more  I  had  many  ups  and  downs, 
and  settled  for  a  few  months  in  the  Fiji  group  and  elsewhere. 
My  reminiscences,  and  many  of  the  incidents  of  that 
time,  I  have  told  in  the  second  part  of  the  present  volume, 
which  opens  with  "  The  Charity  Organization  of  the  South 
Seas." 

My  South  Sea  Island  legends  and  fairy  tales  have  never 
been  told  elsewhere.  I  have  written  them  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  the  manner  in  which  they  were  told  me  by  the 
Samoan  children  and  natives  who  were  my  friends.  The 
mythology  of  the  South  Seas  is  unfortunately  becoming 
almost  completely  forgotten  by  the  natives,  who  now  live 
under  such  different  conditions,  and  seem  only  interested 
in  the  creeds,  legends  and  mythology  of  the  Western 
world. 

These  experiences  of  mine  are  written  from  memory,  and 
I  have  as  nearly  as  possible  kept  them  in  the  order  that  I 
lived  them ;  and  if  they  seem  far-flung  for  one  as  young  as  I 
was,  let  me  assure  you  that  hundreds  of  English  boys  have 
had  my  experiences  and  could  tell  this  tale. 

I  am  from  a  family  of  rovers.  My  uncles  were  travellers 
and  explorers.  My  brothers  out  of  the  spirit  of  adventure 
all  went  to  sea,  and  achieved  success  on  sea  and  land  through 

ii 


FOREWORD 

perseverance.  My  grandfather  in  his  boyhood  went  to  sea. 
(I  believe  he  was  born  at  sea.  His  mother  was  a  lady  of  the 
Italian  Court,  noted  for  her  beauty  and  an  accomplished 
musician.)  He  was  a  direct  descendant  of  Charles,  the  second 
Earl  of  Middleton,  whose  estates  were  eventually  confiscated 
by  creditors — an  evil  destiny  that  has  survived  right  down 
to  the  present,  it  having  cropped  up  in  the  author's  own 
affairs. 

I  hope  to  follow  this  volume  with  another  one,  wherein  I 
shall  tell  of  my  life  when  I  settled  for  a  while  among  civilised 
peoples  and  became  respectable,  and  my  serious  troubles 
commenced. 

I  have  to  thank  Messrs  Boosey  &  Company,  of  London, 
for  permission  to  use  certain  extracts  from  my  military  band 
Entr'actes,  Marches,  etc.,  which  they  have  published. 

A.  S.-M. 


12 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  1'AGB 

I.   IN   BOSTON        .  .  .  .  .17 

II.    UNITED   STATES   MILITARY  MUSIC  .  .  23 

III.   I   TRAVEL  AND   SELL  BUG   POWDER        .  .  27 

iv.  MY  BROTHER'S  RETURN  .  .  .35 

v.  HOME  .  .  .  .  .45 

VI.   CHANGES  IN  SAMOA     .  .  .  .55 

VII.   ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON        .  .  .69 

VIII.    ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON   AND  HIS   FRIENDS  .  83 

IX.   HONOLULU  .  .  .  .96 

X.   AN   INLAND   MARCH       .  .  .  .110 

XI.   AT  SEA  .....         130 

XII.   CIRCULAR  QUAY  ....         140 

XIII.  MATENE-TE-NGA  ....         155 

XIV.  MEMORIES   AND   REFLECTION     .  .  .         173 
XV.   THE  LECTURER                 ....         182 

XVI.   HOMESICK          .  .  .  .  .191 

XVII.   A  NEGRO  VIOLINIST  .  .  .  213 

XVHL  MY  MANY   PROFESSIONS  .  .  .  220 

XIX.   YOKOHAMA        .....  230 

XX.   BOMBAY  .....  241 

XXI.  AT  SEA  IN  DREAMS      ....  249 

13 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.   I  ARRIVE   AT  THE   ORGANIZATION            .                  .  261 

XXIII.  FATHER  ANSTER             ....  276 

XXIV.  BACK  AT  THE  CHARITY  ORGANIZATION                 .  289 
XXV.   AT  NUKA  HIVA                ....  305 

XXVI.   A   DECK-HAND.  ON   BOARD    THE    "  ELDORADO  "  311 

XXVII.   MY  ENGLAND                     ....  325 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Portrait  of  the  Author 

Hongis  Track,  Rotorua,  N.Z.  . 

Whangarei  Falls,  North  Auckland,  N.Z. 

Wanganui  River,  N.Z. 

A  River  Wharf,  West  Africa    . 

Kawieri,  N.Z.  .... 

Whakarewarewa,  Rotorua,  N.Z. 

Old  Maori,  said  to  be  105  years  old    . 

Half-Caste  Maori  Girls 

Lake  Rotorua  and  Mokoia  Island,  N.Z. 

Settler's  Home,  Gold  Coast     . 

The  First  Motor-Car  in  a  Gold  Coast  Village 

River  Scene,  West  Africa 

Botanical  Gardens,  Ballarat     . 

River  Scene  in  New  Zealand  . 

Dart  Valley,  Lake  Wakatipu,  N.Z.       . 


Frontispiece 

To  face  page  58 

„       »  70 

„      »  92 

»       »  H8 

«   «  1^2 

„   ,,  148 

»   ,,  152 

„   „  160 

„   »  176 

«   »  194 

«   w  204 

„   „  216 

„   „  238 

„   „  246 
272 


The    New  Zealand  photographs    are   by  Mr  F.    G.    Radcliffe, 
Whangarei,  New  Zealand. 


CHAPTER  I 

In  Boston — Song-composing — Looking  for  a  Publisher — How  I  secured 
him — I  visit  Providence — I  play  in  the  Military  Band — Hard  up 

IN  those  old  days  of  my  youth  an  atmosphere  of  romance 
gathered  from  old  novels  and  dreams  still  sparkled  in 
my  head.     I  am  going  to  tell  of  the  adventures  that 
followed  directly  on  my  boyhood,  when  before  the  mast  I 
had  crossed  the  seas  with  eyes  athirst  for  romance,  looking 
for  the  wonderful,  the  beautiful  in  distant  lands,  in  men  and 
in  women,   and  for   that   opportunity  to    perform   those 
mighty,  world-thrilling  deeds  that,  alas,  I  have  not  even 
yet  performed  ! 

After  much  wandering  in  search  of  wealth  and  fame, 
following  desperate  trouble  owing  to  schemes  that  failed  in 
Australia  and  the  South  Sea  Islands,  I  at  length  caught 
typhoid  fever  in  San  Francisco.  With  many  misgivings  I 
recovered.  At  last  I  found  myself  sitting  in  a  top  attic  in 
North  America.  It  was  a  humble  little  room,  the  atmosphere 
and  surroundings  the  very  thing  to  feed  the  fire  of  my  aspir- 
ing mind,  to  force  one  to  do  better.  Its  one  window-pane 
was  broken  ;  the  furniture  consisted  of  an  old  table,  a  box 
chair,  a  candlestick  and  my  extemporised  bed  on  the  floor  ! 
I  was  in  Boston,  "  the  Hub  of  the  Universe  "  !  My  sea- 
chest  and  best  suit  were  in  pawn  in  San  Francisco.  My 
money  had  almost  all  gone,  and  my  latest  grand  passion  had 
faded.  I  had  been  practising  the  violin  furiously  day  and 
night,  for  I  hoped  to  become  the  world's  greatest  violinist. 
Yet  at  heart  I  still  felt  triumphant.  The  world  seemed 
especially  mine  1  One  thing  only  existence  lacked — a 
kindred  spirit  to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  by  my  side  on 
some  quest  for  glorious  violence,  adventurous  thrills,  voyag- 
ing across  the  uncharted  seas  of  imagination.  O  too  brief, 
splendid  madness  of  youth  ! 

Far  below,  outside  my  window,  over  the  city's  stone- 
is  17 


.  . . .. ...  ....A.  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

slabbed  *  streets/  rattled  vehicles,  and  the  hurried,  endless 
battalions  of  Yankee  citizens  passed  by,  seeking  fortune  or 
the  grave.  Gold  seemed  the  incentive  to  all  thrills  ;  human 
passion,  hope  and  ambition  seemed  congealed  into  a 
mechanical  state  of  steam,  electric  locomotion,  and  all  that 
the  almighty  silver  dollars  would  clink  against.  I  also 
seemed  to  have  frozen  and  become  a  part  of  the  machine 
which  is  called  civilisation.  The  songs  of  sails  aloft,  the 
noise  of  forest  winds  and  soundings  across  deep  waters,  had 
faded  from  my  dreams  into  a  wail  of  selfishness.  Imagina- 
tion is  the  soul  of  the  Universe,  and  grief  is  its  Bible  ;  but, 
alas,  I  felt  a  gross  craving  for  food. 

So  my  ambition  to  outrival  Paganini  on  the  violin  had 
subsided  from  its  state  of  enthusiastic  fire  and  had  left  in  my 
heart  a  dull  callousness.  One  intense  wish  survived  :  to 
get  a  sound  pair  of  boots  and  a  new  suit !  Winter  snows 
were  only  just  melting,  and  much  privation  had  considerably 
thinned  me.  I  had  done  many  things  which  I  feel  remain 
best  untold.  Necessity  had  inspired  me  with  many  original 
and  desperate  schemes,  the  latest  of  which  was  a  determina- 
tion to  compose  songs.  Music  hall  hits  come,  have  their 
day,  are  whistled  and  sung  by  the  elite  and  by  the  street- 
arab,  and  suddenly  I  thought,  why  should  not  I  supply  the 
public  with  those  rotten  melodies  ?  I  would  do  it  on  original 
lines  and  give  the  American  public  something  new.  Did 
they  not  hail  as  brand-new  old  melodies  that  Wellington's 
soldiers  sung  at  Waterloo  and  antiquated  strains  brought 
over  by  the  passengers  of  the  Mayflower  with  one  bar 
reversed  and  the  title  altered. 

I  would  jump  from  my  bed  at  night  and,  throwing  off  my 
44  blanket,"  which  consisted  of  half-a-dozen  old  overcoats 
which  my  landlady  had  lent  me,  write  down  inspired  strains 
and  next  day  put  them  to  suitable  words,  words  with 
those  sentimental  and  lascivious  suggestions  in  them  that 
suit  the  public  taste — for  the  artist  in  me  had  sorrowed  and 
become  temporarily  gross.  I  sought  money  more  than  the 
applause  of  musical  critics.  Boston  publishers  became 
familiar  with  my  handwriting.  I  had  about  fifty  rejected 
manuscripts  with  specially  printed  forms,  notices  that  offered 

18 


I  BECOME  BUSINESS-LIKE 

me  "  their  appreciation  of  my  favours,  and  the  editor's 
sincere  compliments,  and  by  the  same  post  with  many  regrets 
they  were  returning  the  MSS."  At  length  I  thought  my 
name  was  getting  too  well  known :  I  was  obliged  to  seek  a 
nom  de  plume.  With  characteristic  family  cautiousness  I 
hit  on  a  name  that  was  already  famous  in  New  York  musical 
circles.  My  youthful  innocence  had  almost  passed,  and  I 
vaguely  felt  that  to  compete  with  the  world  I  must  deliber- 
ately stain  myself  with  its  contagion.  Often  my  heart 
bristled  with  schemes  as  multitudinous  as  quills  on  a 
hedgehog's  hide. 

I  had  composed  an  attractive  melody  and  had  placed  suit- 
able words  to  it,  but,  notwithstanding  my  famous  nom  de 
plume,  "  Muller,"  I  had  had  my  manuscripts  returned,  torn 
in  the  post,  the  editor's  marks  indelibly  damaging  it, 
and  too  often  a  dark  stain  across  the  first  page  that  looked 
suspiciously  like  editorial  tobacco  juice. 

Things  began  to  look  serious.  I  became,  if  possible,  even 
thinner.  My  landlady's  politeness  became  gross ;  she 
thumped  the  door  for  rent.  I  was  starving  and  only  had  a 
cake  of  common  yellow  soap.  With  the  superhuman  energy 
and  pluck  of  aspiring  youth  I  tried  again,  imitated  the  latest 

hit  and  sent  the  manuscript  to  "  D &  Co.,"  of  Boston,  a 

small  publishing  firm  in  a  side  street  off  6th  Avenue.  I 
signed  it  with  my  nom  de  plume  ;  the  initials  differed  by 
one  letter  from  those  of  the  original  owner — I  thought  this 
necessary  to  save  legal  trouble. 

I  waited  three  days.  The  post  brought  me  no  letter,  so  I 
wrote  to  the  publisher  and  said  : 

"  DEAR  SIRS, — I  am  an  Englishman  on  tour,  and  a  member 
of  the  Carl  Rosa  Opera  Company's  orchestra.  I  may  have 
to  leave  Boston  at  any  moment,  so,  much  against  my  wish,  I 
must  worry  you  for  speedy  consideration  of  my  manuscript 
song,  Dreams  of  Eldorado,  which  I  can  get  publicly  per- 
formed in  London  town  when  I  arrive  back." 

Two  days  later,  to  my  great  delight,  I  received  a  letter 
asking  me  to  call  on  D—  -  &  Co.  re  my  manuscript.  The 

19 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

very  thought  of  my  song  reaching  engraving  and  print 
thrilled  me ;  that  I  should  be  published  in  America  at 
another  man's  expense  seemed  impossible  !  A  Vanderbilt- 
like  feeling  pervaded  my  being.  I  pawned  my  violin,  paid 
my  landlady  a  week's  rent  and  gave  the  little  blue-eyed 
daughter  twenty-five  cents  to  buy  sweets  with.  I  could  have 
sung  with  joy.  Next  morning  at  ten-thirty  I  was  to  be  at 
the  publisher's  office.  By  night  the  reaction  set  in.  I  be- 
came suspicious.  Suppose  it  was  all  a  ruse  !  For  had  I  not 
borrowed  a  famous  name  ?  A  thousand  thoughts  haunted 
me ;  my  musical  ability  seemed  nil.  I  had  no  talent.  I 
hummed  my  melodies  over ;  they  seemed  ridiculously 
tuneless.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it :  the  Boston 
publishers  had  seen  through  my  scheme,  had  held  a  solemn 
council,  and  most  probably  would  be  waiting  in  that  office  to 
pounce  upon  me  and  charge  me  with  my  duplicity,  and  then 
God  knows  what  they  might  do.  On  the  floor  all  night  the 
old  overcoats  moved  and  moved  as  I  restlessly  turned  in  my 
bed.  I  was  numbed  with  awful  suspicions  and  possible  con- 
tingencies. I  rose  haggard  and  wretched,  and  against  all 
my  usual  instincts  sought  a  saloon  and  drank  twenty-five 
cents'  worth  of  rum.  With  renewed  courage  I  prepared  to 
risk  all.  At  ten  o'clock  I  walked  past  a  brass-plated  door 

with  D &  Co.  on  it.    Three  times  I  passed  it  and  then, 

walking  crabwise,  I  went  in.  A  little  man  with  a  skull-cap 
on  got  up  and  welcomed  me.  I  hurriedly  glanced  round ; 
the  ambushed  publishers  of  my  imagination  faded  as  the  girl 
typewriter  yawned  and  clicked  away.  My  erstwhile  gloom 
blossomed  to  monstrous  hopes.  Negotiations  commenced. 
"  What  did  I  usually  ask  for  my  work  ?  "  he  demanded.  I 
blushed  and  hastily  wiped  my  nose.  "Will  fifty  dollars 
do  ?  "  I  answered.  I  eventually  got  five  dollars  for  the  song 
as  a  preliminary  payment  on  royalties  to  come.  Such 
royalties  !  One  cent  on  each  copy  sold  after  the  first  ten 
thousand  advertisement  copies  had  been  given  away  and 
the  second  one  thousand  had  repaid  the  actual  expenses  of 
the  publication  and  engraving.  Afterwards,  too,  I  found 
out  that  to  engrave  a  song  of  four  plates  cost  the  publisher 
five  dollars.  I  trembled  as  I  clutched  the  green  five-dollar 

20 


A  LACK  OF  TRUE  BUSINESS  CONFIDENCE 

bill.  "  Will  he  alter  his  mind  ?  "  was  my  chief  thought. 
"  Does  he  think  I  am  the  great  Muller  ?  "  The  publisher 
broke  in  on  my  thoughts.  "  Place  your  name  there,"  he 
said,  and  I  signed  the  imposing  agreement,  four  times  the 
length  of  my  manuscript  song. 

Readjusting  his  skull-cap  and  wiping  his  spectacles,  he 
began  to  examine  my  signature.  The  weather  was  cold,  but 
I  started  to  perspire.  Was  he  comparing  my  signature  with 
Muller's  ?  It  was  an  awful  thought,  and  with  a  sickly 
farewell  I  bolted! 

Hurrying  down  the  main  street,  I  longed  to  get  out  of  sight 
with  the  dollars,  but  I  heard  a  shout  behind  me  ;  my  assumed 
name  was  loudly  called :  I  turned  ;  my  heart  sank.  I 
nearly  fainted :  the  publisher  was  running  after  me.  I 
clutched  my  money,  determined  to  resist.  The  new  great- 
ness thrust  upon  me  by  the  sale  of  my  song  still  remained 
with  me.  I  could  not  humiliate  my  pride  and  run,  though  I 
longed  to  do  so.  With  his  little  skull-cap  askew,  he  stood 
puffing  in  front  of  me !  I  gave  one  glance  to  warn  him  not 
to  get  too  near  my  person,  and  heard  him  saying :  ' '  Oh,  excuse 
me,  Mr  Muller,  I  suppose  you  will  be  in  Boston  long  enough 
to  correct  the  proof  ?  " 

In  a  dream  I  reached  my  room,  packed  up  my  brush  and 
comb,  got  my  violin  out  of  pawn  and  left  Boston  for  Provi- 
dence, where  my  brother  lived,  who  had  left  England  years 
before.  To  my  great  regret  I  found,  when  I  arrived,  that  he 
was  away  in  California.  No  one  seemed  to  know  when  he 
would  return.  I  could  not  force  my  way  into  his  bachelor 
rooms,  and  so  I  was  once  more  on  the  rocks. 

I  became  acquainted  with  a  young  Swede  who  was  musical 
and  played  the  clarionet.  Together  we  fixed  up  a  small 
orchestra,  went  out  to  play  at  dances  and  so  just  managed 
to  exist.  We  hired  a  large  room  in  a  hall  near  the  Hoyle 
Buildings  in  Westminster  Street ;  made  our  own  furniture 
out  of  meat  tubs  and  our  beds  of  old  overcoats.  My  violin, 
with  coats  doubled  on  it,  made  an  excellent  pillow.  With 
our  heads  side  by  side  on  it  we  slept  as  soundly  as  though 
we  were  in  the  Australian  bush.  I  spent  hours  each 
day,  and  sometimes  worked  far  into  the  night,  practising 

21 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

my  violin  and  reading  the  lives  of  great  musicians  and 
writers. 

My  brother,  a  crack  violinist  and  a  well-known  journalist 
in  the  States,  did  not  return  for  four  or  five  months,  and  in 
the  meantime  our  orchestra  failed.  My  friend  and  I  lived 
for  a  time  on  the  free  lunches  of  the  grog  saloons.  North 
American  saloon  owners  do  not  allow  their  customers  to 
starve  while  they  supply  them  with  alcoholic  poison,  which  is, 
however,  fifty  per  cent,  better  than  English  spirit.  For 
Americans  are  both  humane  and  practical.  They  know  that 
dead  men  do  not  buy  rum,  so  the  bars  at  luncheon  hours 
steam  with  hot  Frankforts,  plates  of  cold  meat,  cheese  and 
biscuits,  provided  without  any  charge  to  their  customers. 
The  honesty  of  Providence  is  illustrated  by  one  fact  alone— 
if  you  buy  ten  cents'  worth  of  whisky  they  hand  you  a  glass 
and  the  bottle,  that  you  may  help  yourself.  In  London, 
Australia  and  the  South  Seas  the  grog-keeper  would  be 
ruined  in  a  week  if  he  ran  his  business  on  those  lines  !  You 
seldom  see  a  woman  in  a  grog  saloon,  and  never  drunk  in  the 
streets. 

Eventually  I  secured  several  jobs  at  concert  halls.  The 
pay  was  small,  but,  though  other  work  was  to  be  had,  my 
temperament  strongly  objected  to  anything  that  needed 
muscular  power.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  ambitious. 
I  longed  to  raise  myself  out  of  the  ordinary  ruck  of  things. 
However,  when  my  Swedish  friend  got  a  job  out  at 
Pawtucket,  digging  post-holes,  the  high  wages  tempted 
me  and  I  too  started  work  there.  Together  we  toiled 
for  three  weeks.  Then  once  more  I  started  composing, 
and  had  several  pieces  of  dance  music  accepted  in  my 
own  name.  I  arranged  them  as  pianoforte  solos,  and  one 
or  two  for  the  violin  and  piano. 

When  the  weather  got  warm  I  sometimes  went  out  to 
Fort  Hill,  on  the  Seekonk  river.  The  prairie-land  of  Rhode 
Island  survives  in  variegated  patches  of  miles  of  beautiful 
scenery,  with  rushing  rivers,  and  landscapes  dotted  by 
wooden  homesteads  that  remind  one  of  New  Zealand  and 
the  Australian  bush-land. 


22 


CHAPTER  II 

United  States  Military  Music — The  Roger  Williams  Park — Indians — 
Rhode  Island  Scenery  and  Amusements — Yankees — Experiences — 
A  Miner  from  California 

IN  Providence  I  made  friends  with  a  military  band 
conductor.  He  was  a  jolly  customer,  hard  up  but 
good-natured  and  humorous,  a  real  American  band- 
master of  the  old  convivial  school,  kind  at  heart  and  fond  of 
good  whisky.  His  greatest  virtue  was  a  commonplace  one : 
he  would  always  pay  you  back  anything  he  borrowed,  but 
unfortunately  he  was  hard  up  and  could  not  do  so.  He  had 
every  excuse  for  this,  for,  as  elsewhere,  bandsmen,  indeed 
musicians  in  general,  were  supposed  to  be  able  to  live  on 
melody  and  royalties  that  might  arrive  in  some  remote 
future.  I  worked  for  him,  borrowed  my  comrade's  clarionet 
and  secured  a  position  in  the  military  band.  It  played  in 
Roger  Williams  Park,  performing  on  the  usual  holidays  and 
on  sunshiny  evenings. 

American  conductors  believe  in  vigour  and  fire  when  they 
perform,  and  sacrifice  artistic  pianissimo  to  force  and  go : 
on  the  march  the  bands  lift  you  off  your  feet  through  the  lilt 
of  the  music.  The  characteristic  go-ahead  of  the  Yankees 
is  finely  illustrated  by  the  music  they  perform,  and  the 
military  bands  swing  the  population  along  as  they  march 
down  the  streets  :  men,  women  and  children  instinctively 
fall  into  line.  A  Pied-Piper-of-Hamelin  fever  seizes  hold  of 
the  citizens  ;  the  whole  population  is  suddenly  on  the  march 
as  the  band  goes  by.  I  played  in  the  band  on  the  Fourth 
of  July,  a  day  celebrated  by  fireworks  and  gun-firing. 
Americans  go  mad  on  that  date,  wear  masks  and  do  other 
hideous  things  ;  it's  a  kind  of  Guy  Fawkes  celebration. 

The  Roger  Williams  Park  is  partly  wild  and  partly  culti- 
vated, and  artistically  laid  out  with  gardens  and  miniature 
landscapes  that  in  summer-time  are  a  paradise  of  flowers. 

23 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Various  kinds  of  tropical-looking  trees  abound,  in  scattered 
clumps  that  are  haunted  at  sunset  with  bright,  roving  eyes  : 
for  springing  from  bough  to  bough  jump  swarms  of  big, 
wild,  grey  squirrels  ;  their  brush  tails,  a  foot  long,  stick  up 
as  they  jump.  The  children  are  their  boon  companions, 
and  come  miles  with  lumps  of  cake  and  bread  to  feed  their 
tiny,  soft  playmates  ;  for  they  are  as  tame  as  white  mice, 
spring  down  from  bough  to  bough  and  sneak  a  peanut  off 
your  hand,  turn,  brush  your  face  with  their  tails  and  are  gone ! 
In  a  second  they  are  sitting  on  a  skyward  twig  nibbling 
away  at  your  gift,  safe  against  the  blue  sky.  I  found  a  nest 
of  them  at  Pawtucket  Falls,  a  wild,  beautiful  spot  near 
Rhodes.  As  I  was  looking  at  the  fluffy  youngsters  the 
mother  arrived  and,  to  my  astonishment,  chased  me  away. 
At  Pawtucket  Falls,  too,  I  met  a  group  of  travelling 
Indians,  menagerie  people  I  think,  en  route  for  somewhere. 
Fenimore  Cooper  and  other  Indian  tales  still  interested  me, 
so  I  talked  to  them  and  spoke  to  "  Bull  Face,"  a  grave- 
looking  chief,  tawny  and  wrinkled  with  years,  and  clothed 
in  a  heavy  brown  blanket  which  swarmed  with  fleas.  He 
spoke  English  as  well  as  I  did;  but  the  South  Sea  Island 
breeds  are  far  removed  from  the  Indian  tribes,  both  by  blood 
and  habit.  I  never  sought  his  tribe  again.  I  also  saw 
Indians  camping  at  Ochee  Springs  ;  real  Indians  they  were, 
with  squaws  attending  to  their  wants  as  they  blinked  their 
eyes  and  gazed  scornfully  on  the  onlookers.  Smoking  their 
calamets,  dressed  in  tribal  fashion,  they  inspired  me  with 
curiosity.  I  cannot  say  that  the  women  were  as  handsome 
as  I  expected,  for  they  had  stolid,  broad,  reddish-brown  faces 
and  expectorated  frequently  as  they  sucked  clay  pipes.  A 
pretty  little  papoose  tugged  at  its  mother's  breast,  and  did 
not  look  unlike  a  South  Sea  Island  baby,  excepting  that  its 
forehead  was  high  and  receding,  and  it  had  an  impertinent 
European  look.  The  women  carry  their  suckling  babes  in  a 
basket  on  their  back  :  when  the  babe  finishes  pulling  at  the 
breast  it  crawls  into  the  basket  behind  and  goes  to  sleep 
until  the  next  meal.  I  saw  the  papooses  of  another  tribe 
too  ;  the  children  looked  like  little  wrinkled  old  men,  and 
you  might  have  thought  that  they  were  small  authors 

24 


PROVIDENCE  SIGHTS 

sitting   on    their  bundles    of   unaccepted   manuscript,    so 
worried  did  they  look. 

Providence  is  a  spacious  city ;  English  towns  are  in  the 
shade  compared  to  it,  and  seem  overcrowded  and  gloomy. 
The  streets  are  wide;  terraced  store  buildings  on  each 
side  tower  to  the  skies.  Piazzas  shade  the  pavements 
and  the  citizens  from  scorching  sunlight  and  rain.  America 
has  built  her  cities  on  the  improved  plans  of  the  Old  World, 
and  so  has  an  advantage  over  London  and  our  provincial 
towns.  Room  to  breathe  in  is  the  natural  birthright  of 
America.  Extensive  parks,  rushing  rivers,  and  relics  of 
primeval  scenery  surround  the  city,  and  divide  the  suburbs 
for  miles  and  miles. 

No  sign  of  poverty  is  betrayed  by  the  well-dressed  crowds 
that  chatter  cheerfully  up  and  down  the  main  streets;  street- 
arabs  are  unknown.  A  Mile  End  woman  of  London  town 
in  rags,  with  bruised  nose  and  eyes,  walking  down  the  street 
would  create  a  sensation  in  Providence,  and  their  weekly 
papers  would  devote  an  article  to  the  distressing  incident. 

Brilliantly  lit  saloons  shine  in  the  evening  streets,  and 
regiments  of  laughing  youths  and  girls  hurry  to  the  various 
depots,  bound  for  the  ferry-boats  on  moonlight  trips  down 
the  rivers.  The  bars  are  closed  on  Sunday,  but  men  trust 
men,  and  more  sly  rum  is  drunk  on  Sunday  than  weekdays. 
Niggers  with  ebony  faces  mingle  with  the  white  population, 
wearing  white  collars  which  support  their  ears :  a  shabby 
nigger  has  never  been  seen  in  Providence.  If  you  shoot  a 
nigger  and  do  not  kill  him  you  are  in  danger  of  getting  six 
months  in  the  State  prison  for  wasting  shot  and  powder ! 

Many  of  the  characters  you  meet  in  American  cities  remind 
you  of  Englishmen,  but  you  can  never  really  forget  that  you 
are  in  America.  No  true  Yankee  with  self-respect  allows 
you  to  quash  his  opinion.  Nothing  on  earth  can  beat  Pro- 
vidence, Boston,  or  any  state  you  happen  to  be  in.  They 
will  argue  for  ever;  and  if  you  at  length  say  anything  that 
has  indisputable  conviction  in  it,  a  true  Yankee  will  squirt 
a  stream  of  tobacco  juice  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  not 
missing  you. 
Things  of  this  kind  worry  you  for  a  while,  but  you  soon 

25 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

fall  into  their  ways,  and  if  you  are  smart  can  outrival  them 
on  their  own  ground ;  but  you  have  got  to  be  smart.  To  tell 
the  truth,  Americans  have  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  their 
states,  and  really  have  plenty  to  blow  about. 

Literary  critics  have  hinted  that  Bret  Harte  discovered 
his  characters  in  his  own  imagination.  I  can  on  oath  dispute 
that  fact.  Grim  Mr  Billy  Goat  Whiskers,  who  fought  in  the 
North  and  South  wars,  draws  his  munificent  pension,  chews 
tobacco  and  dwells  in  Providence  to-day.  You  do  not  meet 
him  everywhere,  but  he  is  to  be  met. 

In  the  grog  saloons  old  miners  from  California  told  me 
their  experiences,  drew  from  their  pockets  photographs  of 
gold  nuggets  and  of  gold  claims  that  revealed  small  white 
dots  in  the  far  background — the  tombstones  of  men  who  had 
thwarted  them  !  They  were  innocent-looking  enough,  these 
men  scarred  with  wounds,  tropic  heat  and  bad  rum.  They 
followed  the  various  occupations  that  suited  aged  heroes. 
One  old  miner  from  Alaska  suddenly  arrived  in  Providence 
quite  penniless.  His  name  was  Cargo.  Walking  down 

Z Street,  he  spied  the  name  of  Cargo  over  a  sign-writer's 

shop,  walked  straight  in,  spat  on  the  floor,  called  the  "  boss," 
and  tried  to  make  him  believe  he  was  the  ancestor  of  the 
family  of  Cargo,  and  the  rightful  owner  of  the  business.  He 
was  immovable.  They  expostulated  with  him  ;  he  would 
not  go,  so  they  gave  him  a  job  and  thus  saved  legal  proceed- 
ings in  the  High  Courts  of  the  state,  and  the  expense  of 
regiments  of  lawyers  who  would  dispute  the  true  owner's 
claim  to  his  business. 

Providence  is  full  of  reminiscent  men  who  tell  of  adventures 
that  are  wide  and  wonderful. 

If  you  are  disinclined  to  go  to  the  theatre  you  can  always 
go  into  a  bar  and  in  peace  and  comfort  sit  within  earshot  of 
some  grog-nosed  hero  of  the  old  school,  and  find  subject 
matter  to  outrival  the  romance  of  fiction.  You  must  take 
good  care  not  to  let  the  old  fellow  know  you  are  listening, 
otherwise  he  leaves  facts  alone  and,  with  ill-concealed  pride, 
makes  your  blood  congeal  with  vivid  descriptions  of  old 
days,  murder  and  despair,  or  your  mouth  water  for  a  breath 
of  the  fortunes  that  knocked  around  ere  you  were  born. 

26 


CHAPTER  III 

I  travel  and  sell  Bug  Powder — Seeking  my  Wages — Pork  and  Beans — 
Reminiscences  of  Sarasate — I  strive  to  outrival  Paganini — Practis- 
ing the  Violin — I  am  presented  with  a  Round  Robin — My  Blasted 
Ambitions 

AS  the  hot  months  came  round  my  money  gave  out. 
Work  was  plentiful  in  the  numerous  factories 
that  throb  and  thunder  with  machinery  in  Pro- 
vidence, but  such  work  was  not  congenial  to  my  tempera- 
ment, and  would  ruin  my  fingers  for  violin-playing,  as  the 
post-digging  job  did.  Nevertheless  I  should  have  availed 
myself  of  the  opportunity  had  no  alternative  appealed  to  me. 
But  my  friend  the  conductor  was  a  crank  who  was  always 
producing  some  new  scheme  or  invention  that  would  assist 
him  financially  and  augment  his  moderate  musician's  salary. 
One  night  he  came  to  my  diggings  beaming  with  enthusiasm 
over  a  plan  to  make  us  both  rich.  He  had  invented  a  new 
bug  powder :  our  fortunes  were  made ;  all  we  had  to  do  was 
to  let  the  Providence  public  know  the  catastrophe  that  we 
had  ready  for  these  insects.  Suburban  houses  in  the  States 
are  generally  made  of  wood  that  is  specially  suitable  for  the 
bug  state.  So  the  population  of  Rhode  Island  all  have  one 
secret ;  and  on  dark  nights  in  hot  weather  candle  gleams 
and  shadowy  figures  can  be  seen  dodging  on  the  windows  of 
the  tenements,  as  restless  folk  in  their  nightshirts  smash 
bugs  on  the  wooden  walls.  I  write  from  experience.  They 
creep  down  the  walls  in  regiments,  and  while  you  sleep  eat 
your  eyelids  ;  if  you  wink  they  seek  crevices,  dart  into  your 
ears,  and  prepare  for  the  next  attack !  Closing  your  toes 
together  swiftly  at  night  in  bed,  you  can  be  sure  that  you 
have  squashed  three  or  four  American  bugs.  I  have  carelessly 
glanced  at  skeletons  which  I  thought  were  ancient  dead  bugs 
on  the  walls  in  the  room  of  my  new  lodgings,  and  then  at 
midnight  I  have  lit  the  candle,  and  down  the  walls  were 

27 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

marching  battalions  of  old  bug-skins  !  They  had  smelt 
me,  and  the  regiments  on  the  frontier  of  my  bedstead  were 
already  full  blown  with  my  blood. 

So  it  is  obvious  that  a  good  insect  powder  would  be  a 
blessing  in  Providence. 

Well,  my  Swedish  friend  and  I  threw  our  musical  instru- 
ments aside,  and  started  on  the  bug  powder  business,  full 
of  hope.  I  had  several  musical  compositions  that  I  was 
ambitious  to  publish  on  my  own  account.  I  felt  that 
Providence  bugs  had  presented  the  tide  in  my  affairs  which 
I  should  take  at  the  flood. 

With  our  pockets  stuffed  with  a  thousand  bills,  advertise- 
ments bearing  testimonials  from  American  presidents  and 
English  royalties  who  had  stayed  in  America,  my  comrade 
and  I  tramped  along  with  our  hearts  singing  the  excelsior 
song  of  happiness.  We  really  lived  in  a  paradise  of  ignor- 
ance and  youth.  "  A  rose  by  any  other  name  would  smell 
as  sweet "  is  a  true  phrase,  and  happy,  though  selling  bug 
powder,  was  equally  true  of  us. 

We  marched,  singing,  on  the  dusty,  white  track  to 
Narragansett.  In  the  suburban  gardens  that  led  to  the  front 
doors  grew  gorgeous  flowers.  I  can  still  dream  that  I 
smell  their  fragrance,  and  see  the  dancing  blossoms  in  the 
brilliant  sunshine.  Strange  things  darted  over  us,  hovered 
near  the  blooms  and  moaned  like  big  humble  bees.  They 
were  humming-birds,  glittering  and  flashing  their  vivid 
colours,  outrivalling  the  flowers  with  their  brilliant  feathery 
garment.  The  sky  was  blue  as  a  girl's  eyes,  and  nearly  as 
beautiful.  We  delivered  the  thousand  bills  and  spent  the 
rest  of  the  day  by  a  river.  Wild  fowl  swam  across  it,  and 
fresh  from  the  eggs,  with  frightened  eyes  gleaming,  the  little 
ones  paddled  behind  them.  For  miles  the  country  was 
strewn  with  trees  and  houses,  many  of  them  made  of  wood, 
and  at  these  especially  we  left  three  or  four  bills  and  at  length 
disposed  of  the  lot. 

When  we  called  on  my  friend  the  conductor  for  a  first 
instalment  of  twenty  dollars  for  our  services  we  found  him 
out,  but  after  several  visits  we  caught  him.  He  was  pleased 
to  hear  that  we  had  worked  a  full  week  and  left  five  thousand 

28 


SEEKING  THE  REWARD  FOR  HONEST  TOIL 

advertisements,  but  he  put  off  the  payment  of  our  wages 
and  borrowed  my  last  five  dollars  !  We  haunted  him  for 
days ;  he  was  seldom  home.  My  comrade  and  I  sweated  for 
miles  and  miles,  seeking  him  at  his  various  musical  engage- 
ments ;  but  the  man  seemed  gifted  with  second  sight,  for 
as  we  knocked  at  the  front  entrance  he  hurried  off  from  the 
back  and  vanished.  The  bug  business  failed  and  he  moved. 
Still  we  demanded  our  wages  by  post ;  for  he  had  left  no 
address,  and  we  hoped  that  the  postal  authorities  would 
forward  our  pleading  request.  At  last  we  found  him.  The 
sound  of  martial  music  came  down  D —  —  Street :  a  military 
band  was  leading  a  funeral  procession,  of  some  old  soldier  I 
suppose.  There  at  the  head  of  the  band  he  blew  solo  cornet. 
We  dared  not  approach  him,  but  in  our  excitement  we  waved 
our  hands.  He  winked  in  a  friendly  way  as  he  passed  on,  and 
the  strains  of  Chopin's  Funeral  March  faded  with  our  hopes. 

Eventually  we  caught  him  in  a  cul-de-sac,  got  ten  dollars 
out  of  him  and  lived  on  pork  and  beans  for  a  fortnight. 
Providence  would  be  indeed  stricken  without  pork  and  beans. 
As  a  rule  they  are  not  cooked,  or  rather  baked,  at  home,  but 
bought  in  jars,  hot  from  the  baker's  oven,  ten  and  twenty- 
five  cents  a  jar.  Crime  is  scarce  in  Providence,  capital 
punishment  abolished.  If  a  citizen  sat  down  to  his  meal 
and  discovered  no  pork  and  beans,  and  slew  the  waiter, 
he  would  get  off  on  extenuating  circumstances.  Well,  to 
revert  to  the  bug  powder  business,  like  all  my  commercial 
enterprises,  it  ceased  on  my  receiving  the  ten  dollars,  and  my 
employer  the  bandmaster  told  me,  when  I  met  him  a  month 
after,  that  I  had  made  five  dollars  more  out  of  the  enterprise 
than  he  did. 

This  brings  me  to  another  friend,  a  Sioux  Indian,  who 
was  married  and  lived  in  the  next  rooms  to  my  own.  His 
wife,  a  white  woman,  took  in  washing  and  kept  him.  I  used 
to  sit  in  the  evening  and  listen  to  his  opinion  of  the  States. 
His  whole  soul  hated  the  Yankees.  I  once  praised  the 
Americans  and  their  cities.  He  was  down  on  me  in  a  flash. 
"  I  am  the  true  American,"  he  growled,  "  and  the  day  will 
come  when  we  shall  get  our  country  back."  I  did  not  argue 
the  point  with  him ;  his  old  wife  kept  him,  and  he  showed 

29 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

base  ingratitude  by  his  opinions.  He  was  educated  and 
well  dressed,  and  revealed  to  me,  by  all  his  conversation,  the 
same  kind  of  spite  for  the  foreigner  that  I  had  noticed  in 
the  South  Seas.  Notwithstanding  that  the  States  had  been 
peopled  by  whites  so  long,  still  the  Yankee  was  an  interloper 
and  the  robber  of  his  country.  He  was  not  a  bad  old  Indian, 
and  was  a  friend  to  me  during  my  stay  at  his  tenement. 

Just  before  I  took  his  rooms  I  went  to  Boston  to  hear  H , 

a  celebrated  violinist  who  was  performing  there  ;  I  was 
anxious  to  hear  if  he  was  as  wonderful  as  the  review  notices 
made  him.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  heard  such  fine 
playing  equalled  even.  He  played  Mendelssohn's  concerto, 
and  swayed  the  legato  strain  out  till  it  sang  like  a  rivulet 
of  silver  song  as  the  deeper  notes  mellowed  to  a  golden 
strain  as  perfect  in  quality  as  the  sunset  lyre-bird  of  Australia. 
I  have  heard  Sarasate,  Ysaye,  Joachim  and  many  others, 
but  no  one  with  a  better  tone  and  intonation,  except  Sarasate, 
who  played  like  some  inspired  magician  off  the  concert 
stage.  I  heard  him  play  at  his  villa  in  Biarritz,  where  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  a  gratuitous  lesson  from  the 
celebrated  maestro.  "  No,  like  this,"  he  said,  as  I  played 
one  of  his  own  compositions  :  then  he  lifted  his  violin  to  his 
chin,  and  looked  out  of  the  villa's  latticed  window  as  he 
played  and  rippled  out  a  sparkling  chain  of  diamond-pure 
notes  and  then  literally  swooned  into  the  adagio. 

I  never  had  the  courage  to  play  that  particular  piece  after. 

After  hearing  that  violin  virtuoso  at  Boston  I  became 
enthusiastic  and  returned  to  Providence.  The  fever  was 
on  me.  Again  I  determined  to  be  the  world's  greatest 
violinist !  I  almost  wept  at  my  wasted  life  on  sea  and 
shore.  What  might  I  not  have  been  now,  thought  I,  had  I 
been  practising  the  violin  all  those  thousands  of  days  instead 
of  making  sailors  and  South  Sea  Island  savages  my  comrades  ? 
I  went  to  the  music  stores  and  purchased  the  American 
editions  of  Petrie's  Studies,  and  Paganini's  Twenty-four 
Etudes-Caprices. 

In  my  room,  over  the  old  Indian's,  I  commenced.  At 
daybreak  I  jumped  each  morning  off  my  trestle  bed  and 
started  practising.  At  first  I  tackled  the  Caprice  which  is 

30 


THE  ENTHUSIASM  OF  ART 

double-stopping  throughout.  In  a  week  I  had  got  it  off. 
I  had  long  fingers,  otherwise  I  should  think  it  an  impossibility. 
All  day  I  bowed  away.  My  furniture  consisted  of  a  music- 
stand,  the  Etudes,  my  bed  and  me  1  When  I  look  back  and 
think  of  my  wonderful  perseverance,  it  seems  almost  in- 
credible. True  and  wonderful  is  the  energy  and  happiness 
that  aspiration  brings  to  youth !  Day  after  day  I  worked 
away  at  the  studies  with  almost  demon-like  fury.  Soon 
my  chin  had  a  great  scab  on  it  where  the  violin  rested  as 
I  ground  out  the  double-stopping  sweeps,  arpeggios  and 
staccatos.  I  became  thin  and  haggard-looking.  I  greedily 
devoured  the  lives  of  great  violinists,  among  them  Paganini 
and  Ole  Bull ;  also,  after  long  intervals,  pork  and  beans, 
as  the  old  Indian  below-stairs  cooked  them.  He  soon  looked 
upon  me  as  a  sad  kind  of  madman.  I  would  gulp  down  the 
beans,  look  at  his  old  grandfather  clock  and  rush  upstairs, 
then  once  more  grind  away,  determined  to  make  up  for  lost 
years.  I  saw  the  mighty  crowds  at  concerts  TO  BE,  applaud- 
ing my  wonderful  playing  I  I  was  a  new  Paganini.  Ah ! 
how  I  remember  it  all.  Through  excessive  playing  the  corns 
on  my  finger-tips  became  so  hard  that  I  could  not  feel  the 
strings  !  My  nervous  system  was  soon  wrecked,  and  my  brain 
became  ethereal  with  dreams — music  was  the  all  in  all  of  life. 
People  who  did  not  play  the  violin  were  insanely  ignorant. 

Inspired,  I  extemporised  melodies  as  I  bowed  and  toiled 
away  during  the  night  hours;  the  day  was  not  sufficient. 
The  doors  of  the  next  tenement  would  suddenly  bang,  and 
strange  tappings  sound  on  the  walls.  I  opened  the  window 
at  midnight.  I  thought  my  double-stopping  assuredly 
entranced  the  neighbours.  It  was  hot  weather,  their  windows 
were  open  too.  In  my  imagination  I  thought  I  was  playing 
to  crowded  houses.  I  heard  the  applause.  Do  you  think 
I  exaggerate  ?  Believe  me,  I  could  never  write  down  the 
depth,  the  magnificence,  of  those  enthusiastic  dreams. 
Only  those  who  have  felt  as  I  felt,  and  were  once  inspired 
with  ambition  as  I  was  inspired,  will  know  exactly  all  that 
I  felt,  and  all  that  I  dreamed. 

One  day  ten  solemn-looking  American  citizens  appeared 
outside  the  door  of  the  Indian's  tenement ;  they  wanted 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

to  see  me.  My  name  was  called.  I  laid  the  violin  down. 
I  had  no  friends.  Had  my  brother  arrived  ?  Strange 
thoughts  flitted  through  my  brain.  Had  people  come  as  a 
special  convoy  to  praise  my  extraordinarily  fine  playing  ? 
I  opened  the  door  and,  white-faced  and  tremulous,  I  stared 
at  a  grey-bearded,  solemn-looking  old  man  who  acted 
as  spokesman.  He  presented  me  with  a  round  robin. 
Fierce  faces  were  looking  over  his  shoulders  !  Two  or  three 
hundred  signatures  were  there,  the  landlord's  signature  looked 
the  boldest !  I  was  either  to  stop  playing  the  violin  or  give 
up  the  premises  and  move  at  once.  This  was  a  terrible 
blow  to  me.  I  should  lose  a  day's  practice  if  I  had  to  tramp 
about  looking  for  another  room.  I  hated  the  world.  Men 
were  hard  and  mercenary.  Only  violinists  and  musicians 
had  souls.  I  looked  at  my  violin ;  it  was  my  dear,  abused 
comrade,  and  I  clung  to  its  reputation  more  than  ever.  No 
mother  on  earth  ever  leaned  over  her  child  with  thoughts 
that  outdid  the  tenderness  of  mine  as  I  leaned  over  my  tiny, 
responsive  comrade,  silent  in  its  coffin-shaped  bed.  The 
dead  child  of  my  musical  aspirations  it  seemed  to  me,  for 
they  were  gone,  and  my  mighty  ambition  lay  a  dead  failure. 
Oh,  you  aspirants,  you  musicians  and  poets  of  this  world, 
all  you  who  love  art  for  art's  sake,  for  you,  and  you  alone, 
I  write  this.  You  will  understand;  you  are  my  brothers. 
I  can  wish  you  more  success,  but  no  greater  happiness  than 
the  delirium,  the  ecstatic  joy  that  was  mine  when  I  sought  to 
become  the  world's  greatest  violinist. 

I  became  melancholy :  my  incessant  practice  and  irregular 
meals  had,  for  the  time  being,  destroyed  my  nerves.  I 
thought  of  my  schooldays  and  my  life  at  sea,  and  longed  for 
my  boyhood's  days  in  the  Australian  bush.  I  remembered 
the  kingly  stockman  and  his  wife,  and  the  surrounding  bush 
loneliness ;  the  leafy  gum  clumps  and  the  parrots  roosting 
in  them  ;  and  the  hours  when  I  sat  on  the  dead  log  by  the 
scented  wattles  in  the  hollows  and  watched  the  fleets  of 
cockatoos  like  tiny  canoes  fade  away  in  the  sunset.  I  heard 
in  dreams  the  laughter  of  the  romping  bush  children  as  I 
raced  them  down  the  scrub-covered  slopes,  and  I  longed  for 
those  ambitionless  days  to  come  again. 

32 


MEMORIES 

I  can  still  see  the  forest  trees 

All  waving  in  the  dusk, 
As  scents  drift  on  the  wandering  breeze, 

From  wattle-blooms  and  musk ; 
And  o'er  the  mountains  far  away 

Where  home  the  parrots  flock, 
Roams  through  the  sunset's  crimson  ray 

The  drover  with  his  stock. 


The  old  bush  homestead  by  the  sea 

Still  stands,  the  front  door  swings 
As  on  the  tall,  gaunt,  dead  gum-tree 

The  magpie  sits  and  sings. 
There,  by  the  door,  the  stockman  sits 

And  smokes ;  as  on  her  rug 
His  pale  wife  sits  just  by  and  knits — 

His  beard  three  children  tug  ! 

And  as  I  stand  and,  dreaming,  gaze, 

The  years  have  taken  wing, 
And  from  my  heart  out  of  old  days 

Comes  this  sad  song  I  sing. 
That  garden  where  those  children  ran, 

Raced  me,  laughed,  screamed  with  joy, 
Is  overgrown — and  I,  a  man, 

Have  overgrown  the  boy. 

I  know  the  redwood's  forest  height 
Of  branches  thrilled  with  words, 

All  laden  with  God's  golden  light-- 
Songs of  soft,  bright-winged  birds — 

Has  blazed  to  ash  in  homestead  fires 
Of  cities  o'er  the  plains  ; 

Of  all  those  woods  and  sweet  desires 
This  poem  now  remains. 

Sweet  Ellen,  curled  hair  and  brown  eyes, 

I  loved  her  pretty  ways  ; 
And  as  I  dream  sad  heart-mists  rise 

From  those  wild  boyhood  days. 
My  love  was  half  a  passion  then, 

That  pure  love  God  earth  gave — 
It  comes  in  after  years  to  men 

For  someone  in  a  grave. 

33 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Their  shanty  where  I  sweetly  slept 

And  heard  the  night-birds'  screams — 
As  thro'  the  scrub  the  dingo  crept — 

Has  rotted  into  dreams. 
Now  thro'  the  hills  the  echoes  fly 

Of  hearts  o'er  shining  rails — 
The  night  express  fast  thundering  by 

That  brings  the  English  mails  1 

Yet  often  I  go  back  again 

To  where  the  homestead  stands ; 
I  gaze  in  eyes  thro'  mists  of  pain 

And  clasp  old  shadow  hands  ; 
Kiss  Ellen,  Bertha  and  Lurline  : 

Those  pretty  children  three 
May  some  day  read  these  lines  of  mine 

And  all  remember  me. 


34 


CHAPTER  IV 

My    Brother's    Return  —  Scenery  —  Old     Providence  —  Robert    Louis 
Stevenson — New  York — At  Sea— The  Change 

IN  August  that  year  I  at  last  received  a  letter  from 
my  brother,  telling  me  he  had  left  California  and 
would  arrive  in  Providence  in  a  few  days.  I  was 
delighted,  for  I  was  then  completely  on  the  rocks,  having 
spent  all  my  earnings  on  buying  a  violin  bow  and  a  stock 
of  music  !  My  comrade  the  Swede  promised  to  come  with 
me  to  meet  my  relative  at  the  station. 

The  next  day  we  stood  on  the  platform  together  at  eleven 
o'clock.  The  telegram  said  12.30  P.M.,  but  we  were  young 
and  eager.  We  rubbed  our  hands  with  joyful  anticipation 
as  we  stood  there  anxiously  watching.  Our  funds  were  low 
and  my  brother  had  performed  a  miracle — he  was  a  poet  and 
journalist,  and  had  made  money  out  of  his  profession.  When 
the  train  steamed  in  and  the  saloon  car  door  opened  I 
recognised  at  a  glance  the  characteristic  contour  of  the  family 
face,  though  I  had  not  seen  my  brother  since  we  were 
children.  I  rushed  forward  overjoyed,  and  the  welcome  of 
brotherhood  smiled  in  his  expression.  Six  feet  in  height, 
and  correspondingly  athletic  in  appearance,  he  was  well 
able  to  carry  his  own  portmanteau,  but  privations  and 
thoughts  of  affluence  from  his  exchequer  inspired  me. 
Impulsively  I  seized  it ! 

Years  of  residence  in  the  States  seemed  to  have  changed 
his  original  nationality  and  the  accent  of  his  speech.  He 
stood  smiling  before  me,  a  Yankee  of  the  aristocratic  type. 
His  keen  grey  eyes  stared  at  my  shabby  clothes :  the  situation 
was  evident  to  him  at  a  glance.  In  a  store  by  the  civic 
centre,  with  an  entrance  that  looked  like  the  south  nave 
of  the  Crystal  Palace,  my  comrade  and  I  were  measured 
for  new  suits.  Words  could  not  express  my  gratitude. 

With  this  lightening  of  my  financial  cares  I  felt  the  dim 

35 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

delirium,  the  exuberance,  the  faint  revival  of  my  old  romantic 
glamour  return  ;   the  world  seemed  beautiful  after  all. 

My  Swedish  friend  was  delighted  too,  and  smiled  from 
ear  to  ear.  I  can  still  see  his  tall,  lanky  figure,  and  his 
merry  round  blue  eyes  as  he  puffs  and  tootles  away  on  his 
beloved  clarionet.  Ah,  how  happy  we  were,  marching  on, 
carelessly  unfulfilling  the  great  promise  of  youth  while  we 
were  yet  youthful !  Yet  what  is  the  good  of  promise  fulfilled 
when  youth  is  gone,  when  the  glamour  has  faded,  and  you 
look  through  the  grim  spectacles  of  reality  at  the  rouged 
cheeks  of  blushing  truth  and  beauty  ?  Oh,  to  remould  this 
scheme  of  life,  and  be  born  old  !  To  travel  with  Time  and 
grim  experiences  down  the  years  towards  cheerful,  glorious 
youth,  back,  back  to  the  innocence  and  beauty  of  child- 
hood's dreams  !  To  die  full  of  hope  and  fond  beliefs — and 
let  the  true  believers  travel  the  other  way  ! 

I  know  not  where  we  went  or  why  we  went.  I  only  know 
that  my  brother  embraced  the  occasion  and  caught  the 
vagabond  fever  ;  and  that  our  valet,  an  old  Turk  (who  kept 
swearing  that  he  wasn't  an  Armenian),  sang  jovial  songs 
that  were  musically  reminiscent  of  his  harem  days  as  he 
stumbled  and  struggled  behind  us,  carrying  our  bundles  of 
fruit,  new  suits,  bouquets  of  flowers,  and  my  long-wanted 
expensive  copyright  Etudes,  Petrie's  Violin  Studies,  and  all 
that  sudden  and  unexpected  affluence  inspired  us  to  buy. 

I  recall,  too,  how  we  were  walking  up  the  brilliantly 
lighted  main  street  when  a  negro,  who  was  anxiously  watch- 
ing for  the  editor  of  a  Providence  journal  (that  had  criticised 
his  lodging-house  and  the  lady  lodgers  who  kept  such  late 
hours),  suddenly  whipped  out  a  revolver  and  fired.  The 
editor  had  appeared  at  his  door  and  received  a  bullet  in  his 
face,  but  he  too  had  a  revolver — probably  he  had  been 
expecting  the  negro's  compliments — and  he  fired  back  and 
blew  all  the  negro's  front  teeth  out.  The  next  bullet  from 
the  negro's  revolver  went  through  the  Violin  Studies  which 
I  held  by  my  side,  and  but  for  the  fortunate  ricochetting  of 
the  bullet  I  should  not  now  be  able  to  write  my  remini- 
scences !  I  think  the  negro  recovered  from  his  wound  and 
the  editor  was  severely  reprimanded  for  not  hitting  a  vital 

36 


CIVILIZATION  IN  TIMBUCTOO ! 

spot.  For  the  sins  of  negroes  are  dwelt  upon  like  the  sins 
of  the  poor  relation,  and  I  must  admit  that  negroes  are 
sometimes  almost  as  bad  as  white  men.  There  were  no 
moving  pictures  in  those  days  to  perpetuate  the  episode,  but 
still  it  is  flashed  vividly  before  my  mind's  eye.  I  see  the 
three  races  of  good  fellowship,  my  tall  brother  and  myself, 
between  us  my  lanky  Swede  comrade,  and,  just  behind  us, 
straight-nosed  Turkey  struggling  along  on  bandy  legs. 
Equipped  with  argosies  of  youthful  dreams,  pitching  the 
moon  and  stars  and  sun  from  hand  to  hand,  with  rollicking 
song  on  our  lips  we  fade  away  down  the  uncharted  seas  of 
Westminster  Street,  Providence ! — to  awaken  on  dim  shores  of 
cold  daybreak  as  once  more  I  kneel  and  take  the  sacrament 
before  the  grim,  mock-eyed  old  priest — Reality  !  When  I 
was  twenty  years  and  one  month  old — how  long  ago  it  seems ! 

We  visited  most  of  the  fashionable  places  of  interest, 
went  almost  everywhere,  through  the  Open  Sesame  of  my 
brother's  liberality.  And  that  is  saying  a  good  deal,  for 
theatres  and  palatial  halls  of  amusement  abound.  There's 
"The  Gaiety,"  "  The  Colonial,"  "Hippodrome,"  "Sans 
Souci,"  "  Bijou,"  and  heaven  knows  how  many  more, 
wherein  the  cheerful  multitudes  of  R.I.  folk  scream  with 
laughter  and  weep  over  unreal  dramas. 

I  no  longer  played  the  monotonous  second  fiddle  in  the 
orchestra  of  the  music  hall ;  we  sat,  a  happy  trio,  the  smiling 
occupants  of  orchestral  stalls,  where  I  saw  the  Indian 
squaw  fade  to  a  shadow  and  die  rather  than  sell  her  honour ; 
and  the  American  missionary  weep  over  the  grave  of  the 
half-caste  Zulu  in  Timbuctoo  who  had  died  sooner  than 
he  would  drink  rum  !  Here  was  no  painting  of  true  life, 
no  dramatic,  realistic  scene  showing  the  besotted  derelict 
who  died  far  away  in  the  isolation  of  some  alien  land — the 
man  from  nowhere,  who  took  the  wrong  turning  twenty 
years  before,  being  hurried  into  his  roughly  made  coffin : 
then  his  two  lonely  comrades  watching  the  sunrise  gleam 
in  his  dead  eyes,  and  the  half-boyish  smile  on  the  silent  lips, 
as  they  place  the  coffin  lid  on,  and  creep  along  at  daybreak, 
carrying  him  under  the  mahogany-trees  to  the  hole  by  the 
swamp.  They  say  a  prayer  and  murmur :  "  Pity,  Bill,  that 

37 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

we  left  the  bottle  of  whisky  by  his  bed.  Didn't  he  rave  about 
someone  in  the  old  country  ?  Wonder  what  'twas  all  about. 
The  weather's  hot.  Buried  him  rather  quick,  eh  ?  Here's 
the  cross :  '  Bill.'  No  name.  '  Died  of  Fever,  Remembered 
by  Us.' ' 

Moonlight  ferry  trips,  picnics,  concerts  and  songs  are  as 
characteristic  of  Providence  as  of  the  South  Sea  islanders  of 
Samoa  and  Tonga.  One  difference  divides  the  Providence 
population  from  the  islanders — the  natives  of  Providence 
wear  clothes  ;  but  the  Yankee  mechanics  outdo  the  Savaii 
and  Fiji  islanders  in  tobacco-chewing,  and  can  spit  over  their 
shoulders  with  even  swifter  certitude  than  my  sailor  com- 
rades of  San  Francisco,  whom  I  told  you  about  in  my  first 
book  of  South  Sea  reminiscences.  Boating  is  an  essential 
feature  in  their  amusements.  Rhodes-on-the-Pawtucket  is 
crammed  with  boats.  On  sunshiny  days  thousands  of 
youths  and  girls  paddle  and  sing  away,  and  never  reflect 
on  the  time  when  Red  Indian  canoes  darted  in  the  moon- 
light over  those  same  waters. 

My  comrade  was  still  with  me,  and  we  got  several  engage- 
ments to  play  at  dances  and  concerts.  My  brother  was 
in  the  ring,  so  to  speak,  and  so  we  were  received  with  an 
enthusiasm  that  we  had  greatly  missed  when  we  really  wanted 
it.  My  friend  eventually,  however,  went  off  to  Alaska  to 
some  relations.  He  promised  to  write  to  me,  but  I  never 
heard  of  him  again. 

My  brother  owned,  and  still  owns,  I  hope,  estates  called 
Cranston  Heights,  an  elevated,  breezy  place.  On  the  hottest 
day  a  sleepy  wind  creeps  about  them.  From  that  spot  you 
can  gaze  down  into  the  valleys  and  see  a  wall  of  cliffs  about 
an  eighth  of  a  mile  long,  rising  a  hundred  feet  high. 
There  on  a  large  boulder,  known  as  Middleton's  Rock,  my 
brother  and  I  would  sit  reflectively  smoking  long  Yankee 
corn-cob  pipes,  as  we  reclined,  shaded  by  umbrellas  of 
green-leafed  trees  from  the  hot  sunlight.  We  sat  there 
talking  and  dreaming  of  years  ago  when  the  Indians  camped 
on  Cranston  Heights.  I  think  my  brother  could  outrival 
Fenimore  Cooper  and  Cody  in  his  knowledge  of  Indian 
history  and  the  legends  of  the  original  tribes  that  owned 

38 


LAND  OF  KING  PHILIP 

America.  Stone  arrow-heads  and  Indian  pottery  to  this 
day  are  often  found  there,  and  my  brother  showed  me 
several  relics  which  were  dug  out  of  his  estate. 

Rhode  Island  was  of  course  originally  an  Indian  settle- 
ment. Forests  grew  by  the  rushing  rivers,  and  on  the 
prairie  landscapes  stood  native  villages.  The  dominion 
was  under  a  King  Philip,  and  the  island  is  sometimes  called, 
for  poetical  purposes,  "  Land  of  King  Philip."  The  forests 
have  succumbed  to  the  woodman's  axe,  though  still  patches 
of  woods  and  prairie-land  are  left,  and  it  was  in  that  clump 
that  I  sat  and  played  my  violin  and  dreamed  sometimes. 
Still  the  beautiful  rivers  run  across  the  landscapes  like  veins 
of  silver  and  gold  fluid,  glittering  under  the  leafy  clumps 
of  beech,  maple,  hickory  and  many  varieties  of  trees  that 
resemble  tropical  types.  The  waters  of  those  old  rivers, 
like  the  coming  and  passing  of  singing  humanity,  have  long 
since  slipped  into  the  distant  seas,  but  still  other  waters 
flow  on  and  are  known  by  the  ancient  Indian  names.  The 
Seekonk  river  winds  through  Providence  and  throws  its 
liquid  mass  into  Narragansett  Bay.  From  Cranston  Heights 
you  can  see  the  exquisite  scenery  that  is  characteristic  of 
the  neighbourhood  of  Providence ;  across  the  valleys  the 
hills  fade  before  the  eyes  into  dreamy  distances  as  sunset 
floods  the  horizon.  If  you  are  poetical  you  can  see  the 
ghostly  camp  fires  and  dead  Indian  riders  galloping  and  fading 
into  the  arched  sunset  of  blood  fire.  The  view  reminded  me 
of  a  South  Sea  modern  shore  village,  for  here  and  there  were 
dotted  bungalows,  fenced  by  trees  and  green  shrub  and 
flowers.  Things  have  altered  a  good  deal  since  those  days, 
for  I  have  recently  visited  Providence. 

Mr  J ,  whose  palatial  bungalow  was  among  them, 

is  one  of  Rhode  Island's  greatest  business  men,  and  his 
commercial  success  is  deserved,  through  his  unassuming 
philanthropy.  He  has  given  a  great  deal  of  land,  parks 
and  drives  to  Providence.  I  think  it  was  in  Meshanticut 
Park,  one  of  his  gifts  to  the  city,  that  I  met  with  an  adven- 
ture. The  weather  was  hot,  and  I  spied  a  small  lake  by 
some  trees.  Immediately  I  undressed  and,  though  my 
brother  expostulated,  I  dived  into  the  water:  the  park 

39 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

officials  came  and  arrested  me,  but  my  brother  explained 
and  I  got  off  with  a  caution.  Years  of  wild  life  in  the  South 
Seas  had  taught  me  to  bathe  where  and  when  I  liked,  and 
I  had  yet  to  learn  that  park  lakes  in  Providence  were  not  as 
lagoons  on  the  isles  of  the  wild  South  Seas,  wherein  the  whole 
population  bathe  without  even  the  modest  fig  leaf,  gossip, 
mention  the  weather  and  go  their  ways. 

Oaklawn  is  another  pretty  spot.  I  stayed  there  with 
some  of  my  brother's  friends,  at  Wilbur  Avenue,  I  think. 
There  is  a  little  wooden  bridge  thereabouts,  not  far  from 
an  old  stone  mill.  Near  this  spot  in  the  old  days  a  great 
Indian  battle  was  fought,  and  there  by  that  little  bridge 
my  brother  would  sit  for  hours,  writing  his  articles  for  the 
provincial  and  New  York  papers. 

It  was  at  Oaklawn  Bridge  that  I  sat  and  told  my  brother 
of  my  various  boyish  experiences  in  the  South  Seas,  of  the 
island  chiefs,  and  of  my  reminiscences  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  whom  I  had  met  at  Apia  and  on  ships  at  sea. 
My  brother  was  deeply  interested  in  all  I  told  him.  He 
was  a  great  admirer  of  Stevenson's  work  and  his  perfect 
literary  style.  We  talked  of  Stevenson's  easy  and  careless 
manner  that  seemed  such  a  contrast  to  his  perfection  and 
polish  in  writing.  How  he  did  not  care  a  tinker's  curse  for 
the  opinion  of  the  conventional  world,  and  loved  to  shock 
visitors  to  Samoa  by  appearing  before  them  suddenly  in  old 
clothes,  bare-headed  and  bootless.  I  saw  him  come  aboard 
a  ship  dressed  in  that  way ;  and  I  recalled  how,  on  another 
occasion,  I  met  him  coming  down  the  track  inland  from 
Saluafata,  the  native  village.  " Hello,  youngster,"  he  said; 
and,  as  I  was  going  his  way,  off  we  tramped  along  the  track 
together  as  he  hummed  beside  me.  Then,  with  the  sunset, 
out  came  the  native  children  rushing  from  the  forest.  Like 
tiny  ghosts  they  glided,  begging,  in  the  shadows  at  our  legs 
as  we  strode  alone ;  and  as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  threw 
brass  buttons  to  them,  they  raced  after  them,  and  then, 
half  frightened  that  he  might  want  to  reclaim  the 
prizes,  they  suddenly  disappeared,  racing  back  into  the 
forest.  The  sunset  died  behind  our  backs  and  the  stars 
crept  over  the  Vaea  Mountain  top  and  the  dark-branched 

40 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON'S  GRAVE 

coco-palms  each  side  of  the  track  ;  the  shadows  thickened 
as  the  stars  brightened.  So  well  do  I  remember  that  night 
that  even  now  I  seem  to  see  my  companion  striding  onward 
beside  me,  his  loose  neck-cloth  fluttering  in  the  wind  that 
drifts  in  from  the  sea,  stirring  the  coco-palms  and  pungent- 
smelling  forest  flowers  as  it  passes.  Still  I  see  his  ghost-like 
shadow,  the  clear  eyes,  the  thin,  aesthetic  face ;  still  he  is 
humming  a  folk-song,  while  his  right  hand  beats  the  moonlit 
bush  with  a  stick — and  yet  he  has  lain  there  many  years 
on  the  top  of  the  Vaea  Mountain — his  rugged  island  tomb 
railed  by  the  dim  sky-lines  of  surrounding  tropical  seas,  his 
vaulted  roof  the  everlasting  sky,  studded  with  the  brightest 
stars,  as  he  lies  with  his  stricken  aspirations  like  some  dead 
Christ  of  the  lost  children  of  the  wild,  solitary  South. 

A  critic  in  The  Times,  reviewing  my  first  book,  Sailor 
and  Beachcomber,  after  writing  a  column  of  critical  apprecia- 
tion, finished  up  by  saying :  "Mr  Safroni-Middleton  prides 
himself  on  having  known  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  the 
South  Seas."  My  book  has  three  hundred  and  four  pages: 
on  three  of  them  I  spoke  of  Stevenson  ;  but  I  fail  to  see  why 
I  should  pride  myself  on  knowing  him,  except  in  this  sense, 
that  I  am  proud  to  have  met  him  and  to  count  him  among 
the  many  men  who  followed  after  my  own  heart. 

If  he  had  not  died  before  I  returned,  a  little  older,  to 
Samoa,  he  would  have  welcomed  me  as  I  should  have 
welcomed  him  ;  for  he  had  several  times  expressed  a  wish 
that  I  should  call  on  him  and  take  my  violin,  but  in  the 
foolishness  of  a  boy's  thoughtlessness  I  did  not  go.  Worldly 
greatness  did  not  appeal  to  him,  nor  did  my  letters  of  intro- 
duction, for  I  had  none,  and  he  was,  I  am  quite  sure,  aware 
of  the  fact. 

Well,  to  return  to  my  experiences  in  North  America.  After 
a  time  I  left  Providence,  and  then  went  down  the  Hudson 
river  bound  for  New  York.  There  I  stayed  in  a  temperance 
hotel  close  to  the  Bowery,  and  I  cannot  forget  the  scene. 

Along  winding  avenues  that  divide  the  towering  wrooden 
buildings  rushed  battalions  of  hurrying  legs.  The  noise  of 
car  bells  and  gongs  and  the  babel  of  shouting  voices  assailed 
my  ears.  All  the  races  under  the  sun  seemed  to  have 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

emigrated  to  that  spot  to  fight  in  scheming  regiments  for 
the  almighty  dollar.  White  men,  Chinamen,  black  men, 
tawny  men,  yellow  men,  Armenians,  Turks,  Germans  with 
thick  necks — all  were  there.  Over  my  head  rushed  express 
trains.  No  space  seemed  wasted.  Indeed  the  Yankees  in 
their  commercial  search  for  gold  peg  out  claims  in  the  sky, 
claim  square  miles  of  stars,  as  up  go  their  buildings  to  the 
heavens.  By  the  second-storey  windows  on  elevated  railway 
tracks  crash  along  the  trains.  In  those  days  they  ran  by 
steam,  and  the  coal-dust  showered  down  your  neck  and  in 
your  eyes  as  you  moved  along  with  the  thick  crowd  below ; 
a  crowd  so  dense  that  you  could  shut  your  eyes,  make  no 
effort,  and  still  be  propelled  along  in  the  mighty  rush,  as  you 
dreamed  of  other  days  of  peace  and  solitude  !  I  went  across 
Brooklyn  Bridge  by  night :  swung  on  mighty  steel  cables, 
it  dangles  in  space  and  has  several  divisions  for  vehicles  and 
pedestrians.  Below  rushed  the  ferry-boats  on  the  Hudson 
river,  their  port-holes  ablaze  with  light,  and  the  sound  of 
music  on  deck  fading  as  they  passed  underneath.  Across 
the  bridge  hurried  electric  cars,  racing  along  by  the  mechanical 
genius  of  man's  brain,  the  light  of  the  Universe — the  stars 
switched  on  to  wheels  ! 

I  only  stayed  one  week  in  New  York,  for  I  met  an  old 
shipmate  whom  I  had  sailed  with  from  Sydney.  He  was  on 
a  tramp  steamer.  One  of  the  deck  hands  had  gone  into 
hospital,  so  I  yielded  to  my  friend's  persuasion,  went  on 
board,  secured  the  job  and  signed  on.  For  the  rest,  it  is  all 
like  a  dream  now :  I  can  hear  the  rattle  of  the  rusty  chain 
as  they  haul  the  anchor  up,  and  the  uncouth,  shrill  calls  of 
the  pulling  crew  rising  above  the  clamour  of  the  steam 
winches,  just  before  the  tramp  steamer  moves  away  from  the 
wharf  to  put  to  sea.  New  York  and  its  babble  of  voices 
with  their  nasal  twang,  its  vast  drama  of  scheming  existence 
in  a  feverish  hurry,  fades  away  and  becomes  a  memory  of 
some  monstrous  "  magic  shadow  show  "  lit  by  the  sun  far 
off  somewhere  across  the  lone  sea  miles  astern. 

The  sea  routine  has  commenced :  deep  down  in  the  stoke- 
hold firemen  with  cadaverous  faces  turned  to  the  furnace 
blaze  are  toiling  away.  They  look  like  shadows  in  the 

42 


AT  SEA 

flame-lit  gloom,  like  dead  men  working  out  their  penance  in 
hell.  Attired  in  pants  and  a  sweater  only,  with  their  hairy 
chests  steaming  with  running  perspiration,  they  work 
furiously.  Their  conversation  is  made  up  chiefly  of  oaths 
and  forcible  criticism  on  the  lack  of  generosity  they  found 
in  Bill  or  Jim,  who  only  stood  them  ten  drinks  ashore,  after 
all  they  had  treated  them  to  on  that  first  spree  night  of  the 
last  trip.  They  are  not  bad  men,  and  as  they  spit  out  the 
coal-dust  in  a  thick  mass  from  their  stained  lips,  and  take 
a  gulp  of  condensed  water  to  quench  their  thirst,  I  feel 
deeply  sorry  for  them,  and  realise  that  they  are  the  unsung 
heroes  of  the  sea.  I  look  at  the  row  of  unshaved  faces  thrust 
forward  to  the  roaring  fires,  and  at  their  shrivelled  hands 
and  big  arms  moving  the  long  steel  stoking  bars,  and  wonder 
at  the  marvellous  strength  and  virtue  of  the  hard-working 
ship's  firemen. 

On  deck,  like  iced  wine  to  my  lips,  I  drink  in  the  fresh 
sea  breeze.  It  is  dark.  I  cannot  turn  in,  for  I  should  not 
sleep,  so  I  go  into  the  fo'c'sle  and  watch  the  sailors  playing 
cards,  then  return  on  deck  and  look  over  the  ship's  side. 
Under  the  pendulous,  curved  moon — for  it  seems  to  sway  to 
the  roll  of  the  rigging — the  mate's  form  moves  to  and  fro  as 
he  tramps  the  bridge.  The  sailing  ship  that  we  sighted  on 
the  weather-side  at  sunset  is  now  only  a  tiny  travelling  star 
low  down  on  the  ocean  darkness  far  astern,  where  her  mast 
head-light  shines. 

The  weariness  of  the  sea's  monotony  is  on  me ;  we  have 
been  to  sea  long  enough  to  be  half-way  across  the  Atlantic. 
The  weather  is  much  colder.  The  moon  is  large  and  low, 
and  looks  like  a  ghostly  arch  to  the  south,  for  it  seems  half 
submerged  far  away  on  the  edge  of  the  ocean,  that  seems 
shivering  for  miles  with  silver  mystery.  Just  over  the  side 
I  watch  the  mirrored  masts  and  rigging  glide  along  with  us 
as  though  a  ghostly  ship  is  following ;  and  the  hours  fly 
and  dawn  breaks  greyly,  and  once  more  the  tramp  steamer 
is  surrounded  by  blue  sky-lines,  till  sunset  sinks  to  a  wild 
blaze  in  the  western  arch  of  the  sky.  The  sailors  go  on 
watch.  The  cook  washes  his  pots  and  pans  ere  he  cuts  his 
corns  and  turns  into  his  bunk. 

43 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

The  wind's  voice  murmurs  mournfully  in  the  rigging  and 
round  the  bridge  awnings  ;  as  the  night  grows  older  it  swells 
to  a  tremendous  voice  that  is  really  me  !  for  it  is  the  re-echo 
of  my  own  hearing  and  dreaming  consciousness.  I  fancy  I 
hear  the  hounds  of  death  racing  across  the  wild  sea  moors 
as  shadows  dropping  from  the  flying  clouds  go  running  over 
the  moonlit  sea,  and  now,  as  though  a  door  in  the  sky  is 
opened,  the  stars  and  moon  are  driven  and  shut  away  in  the 
outer  Universe.  For  a  mighty  sheet  of  storm-cloud  slides 
across  the  heavens.  The  world  is  changed  to  an  infinity  of 
dark  and  wind,  and  the  one  dim  figure  of  the  look-out  man 
on  the  fo'c'sle  head.  The  thundering  seas  slowly  rise  with 
their  white  crests  glowing  in  the  ebon  darkness  as  the  brave 
old  tramp  steamer,  like  a  frightened  thing,  stays  her  way  a 
moment,  and  shivers  as  seas  strike  the  weather  bow.  Then 
again  she  pitches  onward,  as  wonderful  little  men,  with  bony, 
haggard  faces  with  weary  eyes  in  them,  stare  into  the  furnace 
fires  of  the  steamer's  bowels,  and  shovel  and  stoke  to  sustain 
an  honest  existence,  and  drink  tank  water.  No  wonder  they 
drink  beer  when  they  get  the  chance.  I  am  quite  sure  I 
should. 

A  week  later  we  sighted  the  cliffs  of  England,  and  soon  after 
the  sea  tramp  touched  the  wharf  at  Liverpool  with  a  jerk 
and  a  shiver,  and  went  to  sleep  among  a  forest  of  masts  and 
funnels  till  her  next  trip. 


44 


CHAPTER  V 

Home — On   an   Orient   Liner — The   Orchestra — A    Sailing    Ship — 
Paganini — Port  Said — Honolulu 

AGAIN  I  am  home  and  meet  familiar  faces,  and  enjoy 
the  sweet  security  of  home  life  and  respectability ; 
but  soon  the  flight  of  time  brings  its  inevitable  changes 
both  to  my  feelings  and  to  those  around  me.  I  am  no  longer 
the  prodigal  son  and  a  romantic  novelty  to  the  many  who 
welcomed  me  at  my  arrival  in  the  monotonous  suburb  ;  but 
nevertheless  we  are  all  moody  companions  in  the  sad  drama 
of  respectability.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go  travelling 
no  more,  but  my  good  resolutions  have  faded  away,  and  my 
whole  soul  is  centred  on  inventing  the  best  excuse  for  my 
not  being  able  to  accept  the  good  position  in  London  that 
will  make  me,  at  last,  the  respected  son  of  a  respected  father. 

Well,  I  feel  a  bit  ashamed  of  my  incorrigible  personality, 
and  yet  how  much  my  soul  is  burdened  with  the  thought 
that  I  must  aspire  to  higher  things,  and  go  off  to  the  city 
each  day  like  Mr  W.'s  son  does,  to  sit  on  a  stool.  I  can 
never  be  the  pride  and  joy  of  the  family,  and  as  I  sit 
alone  and  dream  I  am  miserable  with  dim  forebodings. 
On  the  back  of  the  chair  is  my  very  high  white  collar  and 
the  smart  tweed  suit,  and  by  my  washstand  my  beloved 
fiddle.  Just  over  it,  on  a  peg  by  my  bed,  is  my  big- 
rimmed  Australian  hat.  Alas  !  that  hat  speaks  of  tropical 
sunshine  and  coco-palms.  I  can  hear  the  arguing  voices 
of  bushmen  in  the  grog  shanty  by  "  Bummer's  Creek,"  and 
the  trade  wind  in  the  shore  banyans  as  the  beachcomber 
laughs  and  nudges  his  pal  in  the  ribs. 

I  cannot  sleep,  for  the  parrots  are  flying  and  muttering 
across  the  sky  of  my  dreams  ;  I  hear  the  crack  of  the  stock- 
whips on  the  slopes  as  the  scampering,  flying  sheep  go  racing 
across  my  bedroom  floor.  I  close  my  eyes,  and  the  natives 
start  singing  in  the  Fijian  village,  and  the  drums  are  beating 

45 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

the  sunset  out  ere  l£am  wide  awake,  through* the  civilised 
jingle  of  the  milkman's  cans  in  the  cold,  windy  street  below. 
The  last  dark  wintry  morning  arrives.  It  has  all  been 
settled.  I  have  signed  on  for  a  voyage  as  violinist  and 
assistant  purser  on  the  Orient  liner  the  Britannia.  I  am 
to  catch  the  4  A.M.  train  to  London  Bridge.  How  dark  and 
cold  it  is  as  I  get  up  and  dress,  then  go  up  the  next  flight  to 
kiss  my  three  sisters  a  last  good-bye.  They  lift  their  sleepy 
heads  and  put  their  arms  around  my  neck.  "  Good-bye, 
Tiggy,"  they  say  once  again,  as  I  gently  close  their  bedroom 
door  and  go  downstairs.  My  father  helps  me  on  with  my 
overcoat,  and  says  very  kind  words.  I  try  to  answer,  but 
my  voice  sounds  husky  and  I  keep  placing  the  wrong  arm 
in  my  overcoat  sleeves.  Now  comes  the  greatest  task  of  all, 
a  task  that  will  tax  all  my  courage.  I  strive  to  hide  my 
weakness  and  make  a  joke  about  the  bad  penny  turning  up 
again  soon,  and  then  neither  of  us  speak,  and  once  again  I 
kiss  her  lips,  the  lips  of  the  most  beautiful  woman  this  world 
ever  gave  me.  I  hurry  down  the  streets.  I  am  glad  it's 
dark,  for  my  eyes  feel  weak,  and  the  windy  light  of  the  lamp- 
posts seem  to  swim  about  the  street  spaces.  I  am  haunted 
by  her  face  all  down  the  Channel  that  night,  for  she  caught 
my  soul  adrift  among  the  stars  ere  I  was  born,  and  my  heart 
still  sings  a  sad  song  for  the  woman  who  was  my  mother. 

There  is  a  deal  of  sameness  on  a  large  liner's  trip  to  the 
colonies.  But  for  the  complication  of  characters  among 
the  passengers  and  crew,  and  the  ports  that  we  put  into  on 
the  voyage  out,  the  passage  would  be  extremely  monotonous. 

Forward,  near  the  fo'c'sle,  was  the  glory  hole,  between 
decks,  wherein  slept  the  crowd  of  stewards  and  cooks. 
They  were  a  jolly  lot  of  men,  and  when  the  steerage  and  fore- 
cabin  passengers  had  finished  their  evening  meal  they  would 
sit  on  their  sea-chests  yarning  or  playing  cards  far  into  the 
night.  Sometimes  they  would  sing  songs,  accompanied 
by  the  twang  and  tinkling  of  the  assistant  cook's  banjo  ; 
and  older  men,  who  were  tired  out,  thrust  their  fierce  faces 
out  of  their  bunks  and  swore  at  being  kept  awake,  as  once 
more  the  wild  chorus  of  /  owe  Ten  Shillings  to  O'Grady 

46 


THE  DRIFTING  ARMY 

reechoed  through  the  "glory  hole."  Sleepless  passengers  up 
on  deck  clapped  their  hands  with  pleasure  to  hear  the  mono- 
tony broken,  as  the  big  pistons  in  the  engine-rooms  throbbed 
out  their  incessant  pom-pe-te-pom,  and  the  screws  thrashed 
the  racing  liner  across  the  world.  In  the  morning  at  four- 
thirty  the  men  would  be  dead  to  the  world  in  their  bunks 
as  the  second  steward  started  shouting :  "  Now  then,  you 
sleepers  !  Now  then,  you  sleepers,  rise  and  shine  1  "  or 

"  Come  out  of  it,  you  young  b 1  "  and  so  on,  as  sleepy 

heads  lifted  up  in  the  rows  of  bunks  and  then  dropped 
helplessly  again.  Some  were  romantic  boys  who  had  read 
autobiographies,  and  some  middle-aged  men  who  had  sickened 
of  the  workman's  train  and  drifted  to  sea. 

In  the  evenings  I  played  the  violin  in  the  saloon  and  deck 
concerts  aft,  beyond  the  dividing  rope  which  was  the 
boundary  line  that  told  the  fore-cabin  passengers  that  they 
must  not  approach  the  elite  in  the  first  saloon. 

Our  orchestra  consisted  of  three  violins,  'cello,  bass,  and 
the  usual  brass  and  wind.  I  had  an  easy  time,  and  often 
till  midnight  would  stand  on  deck  watching  the  stars  and 
the  world  of  waters  below,  and  listening  to  the  voices  of 
passengers  on  deck  outward  bound  for  Australia,  to  find 
fame  and  fortune — or  ill  fame. 

I  became  very  friendly  with  a  member  of  our  ship's  band, 
the  solo  cornet  player.  He  was  a  quiet,  elderly  man,  turning 
grey,  and  had  once  been  a  player  in  the  orchestra  of  the 
Lyceum  Theatre.  A  fine  all-round  musician  he  was  too. 
He  would  sit  on  deck  after  dark,  put  a  mute  on  his  instrument, 
and  extemporise  melody  and  make  it  sound  like  a  sweet- 
voiced  girl  singing  softly  to  herself.  He  had  the  real  tem- 
perament, and  had  received  a  first-class  musical  education. 

Nothing  reveals  character,  the  intellectual  calibre  of  the 
instrumental  player,  so  much  as  the  type  of  composition 
that  makes  up  his  private  repertoire.  For  in  that  he  only 
plays  the  compositions  which  appeal  to  him.  Some  are 
devoid  of  personality  and  only  perform  the  stock  pieces  that 
are  fashionable.  Others  revel  in  melody  that  tells  of  the  light 
side  of  life,  its  gaiety,  or  the  pathos  of  dramatic  existence 
on  the  stage,  the  tragedian's  mock  grief  before  the  foot- 

47 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

lights  ere  the  curtain  falls.  Others  find  their  musical  heaven 
vaguely  expressed  by  playing  those  pieces  that  seem  to 
murmur,  as  a  sea-shell  murmurs  of  the  ocean,  that  indefin- 
able note  of  poetry,  the  voice  of  the  unknown,  the  intense 
inner  life  of  our  existence.  My  friend  was  one  of  the  latter 
kind.  He  gave  me  many  useful  hints  which  I  profited  by, 
(as  I  often  did  in  my  travels),  and  so  received  a  free  musical 
education,  the  only  music  lessons  I  ever  really  had. 

But  for  the  throb  of  the  engines  and  thrashing  screw,  the 
vessel's  motion,  and  the  stewards'  sea-legs  aslant  to  the  deck's 
list  as  they  walk  the  saloons  and  cabin  alley-ways,  you  could 
half  think  you  were  in  some  subterannean  hotel.  Travel  on 
a  liner,  and  the  wild  poetry  of  the  sailing  ships  swerving  to 
the  swell  of  travelling  seas,  the  climbing  sailors  aloft  singing 
their  chanteys  among  the  storm-beaten  sails,  the  flying  clouds 
overhead  that  race  the  moon,  all  seem  to  be  something  that 
you  dreamed  of,  or  lived  through  ages  ago. 

Sea-boots  and  oilskins  seem  mythical  things  that  faintly 
recall  your  yellow-backed  old  buccaneer  novels,  or  the  days 
when  Drake  sailed  down  the  seas. 

Officers  on  the  P.  &  0.  liners  speak  with  university  polish. 
44  Ay,  ay  ",  "  Hold  hard  !  ",  "  Look  out,  you  son  of  a  sea- 
cook  1",  "Holy  Moses!",  "  Up  she  comes",  "All 
together  !  ",  "  Let  go  !  ",  "Haul  the  mainsail  up  !  ".  This 
is  all  changed  now  to  "  Make  haste,  Mr  Pye-Smith  "  and 
44  Yes,  sir,  I  beg  your  pardon.  What  a  draught  1 ".  Or  a  bell 
tinkles  down  in  the  engine-room,  and  the  mammoth  liner, 
like  a  mighty  iron  beast,  slows  obediently  to  half-speed, 
stops,  or  slashes  her  tail  and  goes  full  speed  astern,  without 
one  song  or  oath. 

The  stormy  night  and  head-wind,  the  huddled  group  of 
sailors  in  oilskins  singing  their  wild  chantey,  0,  0,  for  Rio 
Grande,  on  deck  in  the  windy  dark  as  they  bend  together 
and  pull  while  the  vast  monotone  of  the  ocean  becomes  the 
orchestral  accompaniment  to  voices  from  strong,  open, 
bearded  mouths,  and  your  world  of  stars  suddenly  veers  as 
the  dark  canvas  sails  and  yards  swerve  round;  the  chief 

mate  shouting,  44  What  the  blazing  hell Ay,  there  !  " 

as  on  the  wind  comes  faintly  back, 44  Ay,  ay,  sir,  all  clear  1 "  : 


A  SAILING  SHIP 

this  smacks  more  of  the  sea.  Why,  on  a  sailing  ship,  the  very 
sea-cook  at  the  galley  door,  amidships,  clutching  his  pans, 
gazing  across  the  wild,  lonely  waters,  where  the  leaping, 
white-bearded  wraves  seem  like  old  misers'  hands  plucking 
at  the  sunset's  gold,  is  sheer  downright  poetry  compared 
with  the  electric-lighted  saloon  crowded  with  munching, 
over-fed  men  and  women  with  moving  mouths  and  pince-nez 
on  their  respectable  noses. 

The  sailing  ship  has  its  rough,  uncomfortable  side,  for  well 
I  remember  my  last  trip  from  'Frisco  round  the  Horn,  when 
I  stood  on  deck  at  night,  with  deadly  cramp  gripping  my 
legs,  my  eyebrows  frozen  together,  my  nose  pinched  and  blue 
with  cold,  the  decks  awash  and  our  sea-chests  afloat  in  the 
fo'c'sle  and  deck-house.  I  recollect  the  cook  holding  on  to 
his  pots  and  pans  and  swearing  as  only  an  old-time  boat- 
swain, and  that  cook,  could  swear  as  we  begged  for  a  panni- 
kin of  hot  coffee :  stuff  that  tasted  like  heaven-sent  life-blood 
to  our  frozen  lips  as  we  two  boys  drank  it.  The  weather- 
beaten  boatswain  in  his  oilskins  and  sea-boots  went  by  us  in 
the  dark,  as  great  seas  came  over,  singing  a  song  to  himself 
as  though  he  was  soliloquising  in  some  quiet  bar  off  the  Mile 
End  Road  instead  of  experiencing  the  wildest  weather  I 
have  ever  seen,  or  ever  want  to  see. 

How  I  admired  those  old  seafarers !  "  Fetch  that, 
matey,"  they'd  say,  and  off  I'd  rush,  eager  to  please  and 
obey  the  orders  of  Horatio  Nelson  and  Sir  Francis  Drake,  for 
such  men  they  seemed  to  me. 

In  the  fo'c'sle  at  night  they'd  say :  "Get  that  fiddle  out  and 
play  to  us."  A  thrill  of  boyish  pride  would  go  through  me 
to  notice  their  attention  and  respect  as  I  played  my  best. 
Presently  they  would  join  in  as  I  played  the  chanteys  they 
had  taught  me,  Sailing  down  to  Rio  or  Blow  the  Man  Down. 
Without  removing  their  pipes  or  chewing  quids,  their 
cracked,  hoarse-throated  voices  would  join  in. 

Deep  bass  voices  two  or  three  had,  and  as  they  sat  round 
me  on  their  old  sea-chests,  and  I  scraped  away  to  the  tuneless, 
yelling,  bearded  mouths  beneath  the  dim  light  of  the  fo'c'sle 
oil  lamp,  I  drank  in  the  last  breath  of  the  winds  of  sea 
romance.  I  see  them  now  as  I  dream.  There  they  sit  on 
D  49 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

their  sea-chests,  oilskins  and  sea-boots  on,  with  curios  from 
other  lands  fastened  over  their  bunks  around  them,  as  they 
open  their  big  bearded  mouths  and  sing.  How  ghost-like 
their  eyes  look  by  the  light  of  the  dim  lamp,  as  the  hazy 
tobacco  smoke  curls  thickly  to  the  low  roof!  Then  their 
hollow  voices  fade  and  the  visionary  "  Old  Hands  "  vanish 
as  the  last  breath  of  wind  blows  them  like  cobweb-fine  things 
through  the  fo'c'sle  door,  along  the  moonlit  deck,  away  sea- 
ward for  ever  as  I  dream. 

How  I  recall  these  lonely  nights  and  the  sailors  moving 
across  the  deck  in  the  dark,  or  climbing  aloft  like  shadows 
back  to  the  sky.  I  used  to  stand  alone  and  gaze  over  the 
ship's  side  and  suddenly  feel  the  intensity  of  living,  as  my 
thoughts  half  clung  hopefully  to  the  stars,  like  lost,  migrating 
swallows  that  cling  to  the  rigging  of  ships  far  out  at  sea  ;  and 
the  mighty,  moving  water  all  around  me  seemed  to  break 
with  its  monotone  against  eternity.  I  remember  lying  in 
my  bunk,  and  by  the  oil  lamp's  light  watching  the  ship's 
cockroaches  go  filing  across  the  photographs  of  my  parents 
and  relatives  which  I  had  tacked  on  my  bunk  side  to  remind 
me  of  home,  though  I  required  no  such  reminder.  Those 
silent  faces  intensified  the  difference  between  reality  and 
my  boyhood's  dream  ;  as  a  cold  breath  out  of  the  grave  of 
my  beloved,  who  slept  in  the  seas  outside,  blew  through  the 
door  across  my  face  as  I  dreamed  of  her — my  beautiful  dead 
romance  1 

Truly,  sailing  ships  have  their  rough  side  as  well  as  a  wildly 
romantic  one.  Rolling  down  south,  with  gales  behind  bring- 
ing the  seas  up  like  majestic  travelling  hills  as  under  the  poop 
they  go,  and  she  rolls  and  swerves  as  the  masts  sweep  across 
the  sky,  is  the  motion  of  sea  poetry.  If  you  are  aloft  you 
look  down  and  could  swear  that  she  must  turn  turtle.  Tell- 
ing you  this  calls  back  my  feelings  when  I  first  went  aloft  as 
a  boy  of  fourteen  years. 

The  ship  was  rolling  heavily,  and  as  I  looked  down  on  deck 
something  seemed  to  have  happened  (I  turned  pale,  I'm  sure) : 
she  was  turning  right  over.  I  clung  on  with  might  and  main 
as  the  masts  and  yards  went  over  ;  death  seemed  to  stare  me 
in  the  face  :  like  a  wild  beast  I  hooked  on  with  fingers,  toes 

50 


DANTE 

and  teeth,  prepared  for  the  final  plunge  into  the  heaving 
ocean  below,  when  lo  !  to  the  mysterious  equal  pull  of  gravity 
she  slowly  swerved  and  rose,  the  rigging  jerked  and  rattled, 
the  jib-boom  lifted  and  the  figure-head  at  the  bows  lifted  her 
face  from  the  weather-side  and  went  right  over  to  peep  at  the 
lee-side.  Overjoyed,  I  looked  over  my  shoulder  astern  and 
saw  the  chief  mate  yawning  on  the  poop  and  the  man  at  the 
wheel  quite  unconcerned,  when  I  had  instinctively  thought 
they  were  clinging  to  anything  movable,  prepared  to  dive 
into  the  ocean  when  the  ship  turned  clean  over.  That 
bronzed,  broad-shouldered  mate  grinned  when  I  stood  on 
the  poop.  He  asked  me  how  I  had  felt.  He  was  a  good 
sort.  He's  dead  now  and  under  the  sea,  missing  these  many 
years  ;  and  the  red-bearded  Scotch  skipper,  who  was  like  a 
father  to  me,  is  worse  off,  for  the  last  I  heard  of  him  was  that 
he  was  still  alive  and  missing — mentally.  "  But  this  won't 
buy  the  baby  a  frock,"  as  they  say  at  sea  when  you  go  off 
dreaming  and  leave  your  work  to  yarn.  So  I  must  return 
to  the  P.  &  O.  liner  as  she  races  across  the  Mediterranean, 
bound  for  Suez. 

We  had  called  in  at  Naples,  where  we  had  taken  on  board 
a  batch  of  passengers.  I  remember  one  of  them  especially  ; 
he  was  a  distinguished  old  Italian  and  his  profile  recalled  to 
my  mind  the  pictures  I  had  seen  of  Dante.  He  wore  a  loose 
cloak  and  a  cavalier  hat,  and  carried  a  violin -case.  His  eyes 
were  eagle-like,  yet  bilious-looking,  for  he  was  suffering  from 
some  kind  of  yellow  jaundice  and  slow  circulation.  On  the 
hottest  nights  his  teeth  chattered  with  the  cold.  When  we 
were  crossing  the  Red  Sea  and  the  passengers  brought  their 
beds  on  deck  to  sleep,  hoping  to  get  a  whiff  of  air,  he  went 
into  his  cabin  in  the  usual  way,  with  his  teeth  chattering 
with  the  cold,  crawled  into  his  bunk  and  got  into  his  bed- 
clothes— a  large  canvas  sack  heavily  lined  with  wadding  ; 
bodily  into  this  he  would  go  and  tie  the  tapes  at  the  head  of 
the  sack  tightly  round  his  neck,  so  that  no  air  could  possibly 
get  into  the  sack  and  give  him  a  chill.  The  very  sight  of  it 
all  made  me  perspire  and  gasp  in  that  stifling  hot  weather.  I 
felt  sorry  for  him,  and  I  cannot  imagine  now  that  he  could 
have  lived  very  long  after  getting  to  Australia,  where  he  was 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

going  for  his  health's  sake.  He  was  a  splendid  violin  player, 
but  did  not  perform.  I  used  to  talk  to  him  on  deck,  and  dis- 
covered that  he  was  a  Genoese.  I  was  greatly  interested  to 
hear  that  his  father,  who  was  also  a  musician,  had  known 
intimately  the  celebrated  violin  maestro,  Paganini,  and  had 
had  violin  lessons  from  him.  From  broken  English,  and 
Italian  gesticulations,  I  learnt  that  the  great  violinist  had 
peculiar  ways.  He  had  stayed  for  a  few  days  at  my  friend's 
childhood  home  and  while  there  had  upset  the  quiet  routine 
of  the  family,  for  he  was  extremely  superstitious  and  restless, 
and  walked  about  the  house  all  night.  He  declared  that 
a  ghostly  woman  stood  with  her  face  at  his  window 
whenever  he  played  a  certain  melody  that  had  come  to 
him  in  his  dreams.  Beyond  his  family's  enthusiastic 
reminiscences  over  Paganini's  violin  playing,  that  is  the  only 
incident  that  vividly  impressed  me.  My  friend  was  a  remark- 
able character  and,  though  he  was  ill,  extremely  vivacious 
and  always  talking  excitably.  Sometimes  he  would  sit  on 
deck  after  dark,  and  plucking  the  strings  of  his  violin, 
pizzicato,  guitar  style,  would  sing  softly  to  himself  in  Italian 
with  a  clear,  sweet,  musical  voice  that  was  very  effective. 

I  went  with  him  ashore  at  Port  Said.  It  was  fearfully 
hot,  but  as  my  friend  walked  down  the  gangway  with  me  he 
was  well  swathed  in  scarves,  and  wrapped  up  in  shirts  under 
his  large  fur-lined  cloak.  He  seemed  to  have  plenty  of 
money  and  was  anything  but  mean  with  it.  It  was  a  treat 
to  get  away  from  the  hubbub  of  the  natives  coaling  the 
steamer.  I  only  have  a  dim,  dream-like  recollection  of  that 
particular  visit  ashore  at  Port  Said.  I  remember  the  town 
with  the  white  buildings  and  palm-trees  dimly  outlined  under 
the  stars,  and  the  begging,  dark-faced  descendarts  of  the 
Egyptian  Pharaohs  who  rushed  forth  out  of  alley-ways  and 
sought  our  patronage.  Signor  Niccolo  was  terribly  thirsty, 
and  the  English  restaurant  was  so  crowded  with  passengers 
from  the  boats  that  we  both  went  off  and  sought  elsewhere 
for  refreshments.  We  went  up  a  dark  alley-way,  directed 
there  by  a  swarthy  man  who  evidently  misunderstood  our 
requirements.  In  the  darkness  it  seemed  like  some  sub- 
terranean passage  to  an  Egyptian  ghost-land  as  we  walked 

52 


PORT  SAID 

along  and  heard  the  uncouth  voices  of  the  inhabitants 
issuing  from  the  little  barred  windows  that  were  let  in  in  the 
high  walls  on  each  side.  Shuffling  by  us  went  the  sandalled 
feet  of  black  men  with  white  turbans  on  that  looked  like 
towels  swathed  about  their  heads.  Presently  we  arrived  at 
a  tunnel-like  entrance  that  led  into  a  suspicious,  dimly  lit 
little  restaurant.  As  we  sat  at  one  of  the  small  tables  and 
sniffed  peculiar  odours,  that  smelt  like  scented  tea  and 
aromatic  herbs,  four  dusky  beauties  came  through  a  little 
secret  door  and  laughingly  revealed  their  teeth,  then  asked 
in  broken  English  what  we  would  like  to  drink.  Signer 
Niccolo  called  for  wine  and  I  had  coffee.  Off  rushed  the 
dark  female  attendants  to  execute  our  orders.  "  Funny 
plaze  and  funny  girlees,  eh  ?  "  said  Signer  Niccolo  to  me. 
"  Seems  so,"  I  answered,  for  the  waitresses  were  only  dressed 
in  little  singlets,  with  a  loose  piece  hanging  to  their  knees  and 
a  scarf  swathed  about  their  bosoms  for  modesty's  sake, 
which  was  the  only  modesty  that  we  saw  there,  as  they  lifted 
their  scanty  robes  to  dust  the  furniture.  We  drank  our 
refreshment  and  hurriedly  escaped  from  the  place. 

I  do  not  think  there  are  any  missionaries  at  Port  Said ; 
possibly  the  English  and  American  officials  look  upon  it  as 
hopeless.  Port  Said  was  a  veritable  hell  of  iniquity  in 
those  days,  and  still  is.  Passengers  often  went  ashore  and 
lost  the  boat,  or  disappeared  altogether.  After  we  left  a 
Yankee  saloon  passenger  sat  on  the  settee  and  told  us  of  his 
experiences  there.  He  had  gone  into  an  isolated  restaurant 
at  the  north  end  of  the  town  and  called  for  a  drink.  In  his 
button-hole  he  wore  a  large  red  camellia  blossom  which, 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  was  a  kind  of  Masonic  sign.  So 
directly  he  had  ordered  his  whisky  and  sat  down  in  the  large 
arm-chair,  the  attendant,  who  was  an  old  black  Arab  mute 
with  a  heavy  grey  beard,  suddenly  touched  a  spring  in  the 
wall,  and  lo  I  up  went  a  partition  on  each  side  and  he  was 
shut  in  a  little  room,  staring  with  surprise  at  the  old  mute, 
who,  to  his  astonishment,  now  spoke  in  a  musical  voice. 
The  old  man's  beard  and  eyebrows  dropped  off  and  with  the 
old  cloak  fell  rustling  to  the  floor,  and  there,  with  shining 
dark  eyes  and  pouting  lips,  a  dusky  harem  beauty  stood 

53 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

before  him  1  Even  the  sedate  P.  &  O.  chief  officer  smiled 
behind  his  napkin  as  the  Yankee  told  us  that  yarn,  and  we 
tried  to  keep  straight  faces  over  all  the  details  which  I  have 
left  out  1 

Three  or  four  weeks  later  I  arrived  in  Melbourne,  where 
I  stayed  a  week  in  Collins  Street  and  at  length  succeeded  in 
getting  a  berth  on  a  boat  that  was  bound  for  the  Islands. 
Eventually  I  arrived  at  Honolulu,  where  I  had  some  luck 
with  my  violin  playing  which  enabled  me  to  take  a  cheap 
passage  to  Apia,  where  I  had  lived  before. 


54 


CHAPTER  VI 

Changes  in  Samoa — Curios — A  Moonlit  Scene — Saints  and  Fakirs — 
Indians — Apia  Town — Vailima — The  Chief  Mataaga — A  Forest 
Ballroom — The  Wandering  Scribe — A  Legend  of  Samoa — An 
old  Shellback's  Yarns — Tuputa  and  the  Sinless  Lands — A 
Tribal  Waltz 

IT  was  some  time  since  I  had  left  Samoa.    Things  there 
seemed  to  have  considerably  changed.     Many  of  my 
friends,  both  natives  and  white  men,  had  gone  away  to 
another  island.     I  went  up  to  Mulinuu  village,  expecting  to 
see  my  friend  Raeltoa,  the  Samoan,  and  to  my  great  regret 
learnt  that  his  wife  had  died  of  consumption  and  that  he  had 
gone  away  to  the  Line  Islands,  in  the  Equatorial  Group. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  had  died  some  months  before,  and 
was  at  rest  on  the  top  of  Vaea  Mountain.     Indeed  with  his 
death  the  old  Samoa  seemed  to  have  passed  away. 

I  felt  rather  depressed  for  a  time,  but  I  met  an  American 
tourist,  staying  at  the  German  hotel  in  Apia,  who  was  very 
eccentric,  and  he  cheered  me  up  considerably.  He  was  a 
collector  of  native  curios,  and  his  whole  life  seemed  to 
be  centred  on  his  strange  hobby.  He  invited  me  into  his 
apartments,  and  I  could  hardly  move  for  the  lumber  and  his 
large  crates  of  native  pottery,  old  breech-loading  weapons, 
cutlasses,  mummified  human  heads,  dried  native  feet  cut  off 
at  the  ankles,  war  clubs,  human  teeth  and  skeletons,  native 
musical  instruments  and  barbarian  furniture.  He  talked 
of  nothing  else  but  his  gruesome  collection.  He  had  a  high, 
bald  head  and  beak-like  nose,  whereon  he  was  eternally 
fingering  his  pince-nez,  which  kept  falling  off  whilst  he 
enthusiastically  held  up  relics  for  my  inspection.  His 
passion  for  getting  curios  seemed  never  satisfied.  We  dined 
at  a  native's  house  together ;  suddenly  he  lifted  the  cloth 
and  saw  that  the  table  was  a  rough,  native-made  table  of 
platted  cane  and  bamboo.  Immediately  he  bargained  for 

55 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

it,  and  to  the  native's  delight  purchased  it,  and  off  we  went 
with  it.  How  he  got  them  all  away  from  the  hotel  I  don't 
know,  for  he  had  a  regular  cargo  of  stuff,  but  eventually 
he  got  his  curios  on  board  a  steamer  and  went  off  to  San 
Francisco. 

I  stayed  on  in  Apia  for  several  weeks,  joining  a  party  of 
tourists,  and  with  them  I  visited  the  various  scenes  and 
islands  of  the  group.  As  I  write,  in  a  dream  I  see  the  slopes 
rising  from  the  sea,  lying  silent  in  the  moonlight.  The  curling 
smoke  from  the  camp  fires  steals  above  the  still  coco-palms 
that  shelter  the  huts  of  the  native  villages.  The  big,  hive- 
shaped  houses  are  musical  with  humming  melody  and  the 
jabbering  voices  of  rough-haired  native  girls  and  women. 
Some  squat  cross-legged  by  door-holes,  whence  emerge  tiny, 
brown,  naked  children,  to  turn  head  over  heels,  or  race  like 
joyful  puppies  after  each  other  round  the  dens.  Big  full- 
blooded  Samoan  chiefs  smile  and  show  their  white  teeth 
as  they  roll  banana- leaf  cigarettes  between  their  dusky 
fingers.  Across  the  flat  lies  Apia  town  with  its  one  main 
street ;  beyond  the  inland  plateaux  rise,  and  far  off  you  can 
see  the  moonlit  waves  breaking  into  patches  like  white  moss 
on  the  level  ocean  plains. 

By  the  copra  and  coco  plantations  are  the  emigrant  settle- 
ments, where  tired  coolies,  most  of  them  Malay  Indians,  rest 
after  their  toil.  Native  women  linger  near  them,  for  they 
are  generous  men  those  coolies,  and  give  the  velvet-skinned 
native  girls  sham  jewellery.  The  Indian  sadhu  (saint)  sits 
by  the  line  of  dens  and  stores  under  the  palms  ;  he  looks  like 
some  carved  holy  image  as  he  stares  with  bright,  unblinking 
eyes.  The  natives'  wooden  idols  have  long  since  been 
smashed,  or  have  rotted  away,  and  that  living  idol  of  the 
East  is  one  from  many  cargoes  that  have  arrived  to  take  the 
place  of  the  old  deaf  South  Sea  idols.  The  new  idols  are  real ; 
they  have  live  tongues  and  eyes  that  lure  on  true  believers, 
converts  to  Allah,  to  do  monstrous  things.  The  deaf,  dumb 
wooden  gods  of  heathen  times  were  sanctified  compared 
with  these  new  immigrant  idols  that  breathe  ! 

That  old  fakir,  with  outstretched  withered  arm  that 
brings  him  reverence  and  cash,  represents  Hinduism,  or 

56 


INDIAN  SEERS 

Buddha.  His  thick  beard  is  almost  solid  with  filth,  where- 
from  at  intervals,  out  to  the  hot  sky,  buzz  big  blow-flies. 
Just  across  the  track  is  the  bazaar,  wooden  cabins  under  the 
mangroves  and  coco-palms,  where  the  Indians  sell  jewellery, 
the  Koran,  and  richly  coloured  dress  materials  to  the 
Samoan  women.  The  Indians  appear  fine-looking  men 
when  dressed,  with  their  dark,  brilliant  eyes  and  curly,  close- 
cropped  beards.  They  swear  to  all  things  by  the  holy  prophet 
Mahomet,  and  wear  a  poetic  smile  that  enlarges  when  you 
are  not  looking  to  a  sardonic  grin  !  Native  women  meet 
them  at  dark  under  the  coco-palms,  stroke  their  beards 
and  gaze  secretly  up  into  their  faces  with  passionate 
admiration. 

That  pretty  Samoan  girl,  with  staring,  romantic  eyes  and 
rough,  bronze-coloured  hair,  who  only  a  week  ago  gave 
herself  body  and  soul  to  some  Indian,  the  scum  of  the  East, 
sits  alone  under  the  dark  mangroves  by  the  lagoon  and 
thinks  and  thinks  of  the  day  before  her  fall.  A  red,  decorated 
loin-cloth  reaches  to  her  waist,  the  forest  winds  kiss  the 
maiden  curves  of  her  brown,  flower-like  bosom.  She  is 
very  young :  her  childhood's  dolls  are  still  unbroken,  and 
are  being  loved  and  nursed  by  her  little  sisters  who  live  on 
the  neighbouring  Savaii  Isle.  Her  father  was  eaten  by  a 
shark  last  year,  and  her  mother  is  married  to  a  white  man 
who  is  never  sober. 

Not  far  away  sit  a  group  of  Indian  women,  dark  and  evil- 
looking,  with  round  faces.  Dressed  in  gorgeous  garments 
of  rich  yellow  and  crimson,  they  are  certainly  attractive ; 
earrings  dangle  from  their  ears  and  some  of  them  have  a 
silver  hoop  through  the  nose.  They  loll  under  the  coco- 
palms,  whisper  viciousness,  and  mortally  hate  the  handsome 
Samoan  girls. 

The  mail  steamer  arrived  in  Apia  harbour  a  few  hours  ago. 
Along  the  white,  dusty,  inland  track  goes  the  fair,  handsome 
white  woman,  Maria  Mandy.  She  is  off  to  her  bungalow  up 
the  hill,  a  secluded,  romantic  spot.  Her  round,  pretty  face 
is  getting  quite  sunburnt  and  brown.  By  her  side  walks 
an  aristocratic-looking  tourist ;  he  wears  pince-nez,  is  deeply 
religious  and  in  a  great  hurry  1  Maria  is  dressed  up  to 

57 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

"  the  nines,"  is  scented  and  looks  fine  and  sweet :  the  "  light 
o'  Love  "  of  a  score  of  German  naval  officers  and  men  of 
respectable  repute,  she  has  grown  wealthy  and  intends  to  go 
soon  to  Sydney.  With  her  wit  and  courtly  polish  she  will 
get  on  well  in  Australia,  and  will  probably  get  into  Govern- 
ment House  society,  be  extremely  virtuous  and  so  shocked 
that  she  will  suggest  the  removal  from  the  select  clique  of 

such  suspicious  characters  as  old  Colonel  B ,  who  will 

foam  at  the  mouth  and  wonder  why  he  is  snubbed.  Mrs 
S.  A.  and  Lady  H.  B.  will  go  into  hysterics,  weep,  grind  their 
delicate  white  teeth,  look  at  the  ceiling  of  their  bedroom 
and  ask  heaven  who  could  possibly  have  guessed  about 
those  intrigues  ;  and  they  will  never  dream  of  the  knowing 
Apia  harlot — handsome  Maria  Mandy. 

That  fat,  thick-necked  German  official,  who  likes  Samoa 
better  than  the  Berlin  suburbs,  is  out  walking  alone  ;  he  is 
just  off  to  see  Salvao  Marva  and  gaze  upon  her  through  those 
big-rimmed,  academic  spectacles.  He  is  nearly  sixty,  and 
pretty  Marva  is  nearly  fifteen  years  old !  No  one  knows 
about  it  though.  He  is  a  good  man  at  home,  plays  the 
Austrian  zither  perfectly,  and  sings  in  a  deep  religious  bass 
voice  folk-songs  of  the  Fatherland.  Romantic  Marva  loves 
those  songs,  and  knows  them  all  by  heart ;  she  has  a  voice 
like  a  wild  bird,  and  you  do  not  feel  so  hard  upon  the  in- 
auspicious fall  of  German  culture.  He  is  due  back  in  Berlin 
soon,  for  his  time  is  up  in  six  months,  so  he  is  quite  safe,  and 
poor  Marva  can  place  the  parental  responsibility  for  her  baby 
on  to  the  back  of  the  beachcomber,  Bill  Grimes,  who  will 
say,  "  Well  I'm  blowed,  if  this  ain't  all  right,"  then  accept 
the  position  and  make  his  home  in  the  South  Seas  after  all. 

Maria  Mandy  is  not  the  only  lady  who  will  become  respect- 
able and  make  the  devil  rub  his  hands  and  chuckle  with 
delight.  On  the  beach  stroll  other  white  women,  and  droves 
of  pretty  half-caste  girls  who  will  eventually  get  jobs  as 
"  ladies'  maids  "  to  touring  families  that  call  at  Apia  on  the 
homeward  voyage  to  New  York  and  London.  They  have 
fine  times  those  girls  with  the  German  and  English  sailors, 
or  with  "  perfect  gentlemen,"  and  sometimes  a  black- sheep 
missionary  who  has  been  dismissed  from  the  L.M.S.  Off 

58 


HONGIS  TRACK,  ROTORUA,  N.Z. 


O  PIONEERS  !    PIONEERS  ! 

they  go  on  the  spree  and  forget  themselves  and  do  things 
that  make  even  the  beachcomber  Bill  Grimes  rub  his  eyes 
and  stare ;  for,  after  all,  he's  not  so  bad ;  he  can  some  day, 
in  that  "  far-off  event  of  perfect  good,"  buy  a  new  suit  of 
clothes  ;  but  the  beachcombers  that  loaf  and  eat  the  fruit 
of  frailty  in  this  Eden  of  the  South  Seas  can  never  buy 
another  soul. 

Hark  !  the  harbour  is  musical  with  voices,  for  this  is 
fair  Italy  of  the  Southern  Seas,  where  natives  paddle  their 
canoes  and  sing  their  weird  melodies  as  naturally  as  men 
breathe.  You  can  hear  the  splash  of  the  paddles  and  oars 
as  they  cut  the  thickly  star-mirrored  water.  The  native 
boats  are  bringing  sailors  ashore  from  the  ships  that  arrived 
at  twilight.  The  moonlit  shore  and  the  palm-clad  slopes 
look  like  fairyland  to  the  silent  ships  lying  out  in  the  harbour. 
The  men  step  ashore,  pay  one  shilling,  or  one  mark,  each, 
then  off  go  the  canoes  back  to  the  ships  for  other  crews,  as 
the  groups  of  sailors  go  up  to  Apia  town.  Before  they  get 
there  dusky  guides  offer  their  services,  and  they  see  the 
sights — such  sights  too  !  No  missionaries  could  ever  reform 
such  creatures  as  they  see.  One  of  them,  she  is  one  of  many, 
wears  almost  nothing,  the  curved,  thick  lips  in  her  wide 
mouth  murmur  forth  alluring  Samoan  speech.  Her  girth 
is  enormous,  and  her  brown  bosom  heaves  with  simulated 
professional  passion,  like  a  wave  on  the  treacherous  deep 
dark  ocean  of  sensuality — whereon  so  often  travelling  men 
are  shipwrecked.  Her  eyes  are  large,  the  pupils  widely 
encircled  with  white,  and  warm  with  the  sunlight  gleam  of 
downright  wickedness  ;  she  has  been  taught  her  art  in  the 
vast  university  of  experience  with  white  men  in  the  fore- 
most ranks  of  civilisation's  pioneer  tramp  !  Paid  vice  was 
never  known  in  Samoa  till  the  white  men  came  ;  but  now  she 
lures  to  her  velvety  brown  arms  the  unwary  innocence  of 
fragile  sailormen  and  tourists  who  come  from  London  on  the 
civilised  Thames  ;  where  the  missionaries  hail  from,  who  in 
our  land  of  purity,  of  course,  cannot  exert  and  bring  into 
play  their  noble  efforts,  and  so  through  innocence,  O  England, 
my  England,  your  children  fall  before  the  lure  of  the  wicked 
South  ! 

59 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Low-caste  Samoan  women  are  not  all  hideous ;  some  have 
large,  innocent  eyes  alive  with  wonder  ;  half  angel  and  half 
devil  they  look  as  they  stand  before  the  camera  and,  answer- 
ing the  stern  voice  of  the  operator,  strive  to  look  modest 
and  sweet. 

By  the  edge  of  the  small  lagoon,  under  those  tall  coco- 
nut-trees sit  four  little  naked  baby  girls.  It  is  dark,  but 
their  brown  faces  imaged  in  the  water  can  be  seen  by  the 
brilliant  moonlight ;  they  look  like  truant  cherubims  from 
Paradise  out  on  the  spree,  as  they  sit  side  by  side  whispering 
musical  Samoan  baby  words,  and  kissing  the  rag  doll  that 
was  made  in  Germany.  Their  Samoan  father  is  away  in  a 
far  village  on  a  visit  to  a  wedding  feast ;  if  you  listen  you 
can  hear  the  far-off  sounds  of  tom-toms  and  cymbal-clanging 
coming  across  on  the  drifting  forest  wind  that  brings  with  it 
odours  of  wild,  decaying  flowers  and  fruit.  Their  mother  is 
fast  asleep  by  the  door  of  their  native  home  close  by ;  she 
sleeps  soundly,  and  the  mongrel  dog's  snout  is  couched  softly 
on  her  bare,  warm,  brown  breast.  It  looks  a  mystical, 
beautiful  world,  like  some  spiritual  land  beyond  the  stars, 
as  the  bright  eyes  of  those  tiny  faces  peep  through  the  wind- 
blown palm  leaves  ;  and  I  watch  them  in  my  dreams  to- 
night, though  long  since  those  little  girls  are  women  and 
now  meet  the  eyes  of  Indian,  Chinese  and  European  men. 

Civilisation's  iron  foot  is  on  the  hills,  and  along  the  tracks 
that  lead  inland  where  mission  schools  and  churches  stand, 
to  collect  on  weekdays  and  Sundays  the  high-class  native 
folk  who  live  in  comfortable  Polynesian  homes.  The  night 
is  hot,  starry  and  almost  windless,  and  handsome  Samoan 
youths  attired  in  the  lava-lava  (loin-cloth)  patter  swift- 
footed  along  the  tracks  under  the  coco-nut  and  tropical 
trees  that  shelter  the  primitive  homes  of  the  South  Sea 
paradise.  Samoan  girls  with  wild,  bright  eyes,  round,  plump, 
brown  faces,  and  curved  figures  as  perfect  as  sculptural  art, 
pass  and  repass  up  the  forest  tracks.  They  are  singing 
Samoan  songs  that  intensify  the  romantic,  dream-like 
atmosphere  of  the  tropical  night — an  atmosphere  not  even 
to  be  dispelled  by  the  wailing  cry  of  the  native  babies,  who 
give  short,  wild,  smothered  screams  as  they  lose  and  then 

60 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

suddenly  recover  the  breasts  of  sleeping  mothers  in  those 
thatched  homes  by  the  palms  and  banana  groves.  The 
vast  night  sky,  agleam  with  stars,  shines  like  a  mighty  mirror. 
You  can  see  the  red  glow  of  the  reflection  from  the  volcanic 
crater  miles  away  on  Savaii's  Isle. 

If  you  go  up  the  slope  and  stand  on  the  plateau,  away 
inland,  when  dawn  is  stealing  in  grey  tints  along  the  ocean 
horizon,  awakening  the  birds  on  Vaea  Mountain,  and  the 
native  homes  are  astir,  you  can  distinctly  see  afar  something 
that  looks  like  a  cow-shed  by  coco-palms  and  thick  jungle 
growth.  It  is  Vailima,  the  home  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 
One  light  gleams  in  the  large  shed-room,  and  the  intellectual, 
sensitive  face  of  the  poet-author  moves  there  in  the  gloom. 
He  has  come  back  from  Apia  town  and  is  tired,  yet  secretly 
as  pleased  as  the  two  old  shellbacks  who  have  carried  his 
curios  back,  and  who  hitch  up  their  trousers  and  cough 
respectfully  as  the  world-famous  author  sneaks  them  in  and 
gives  each  a  bumping  glass  of  the  best  brand.  How  quietly 
his  keen  eyes  gaze  upon  them  as  they  drink !  On  a  shelf 
the  large  clock  ticks  warningly.  He  glances  at  it  now  and 
again  as  the  belated  sailors  yarn  on,  grow  more  and  more 
garrulous  and  continue  their  strange  experiences,  that  cling 
to  the  wonderful,  distilling  brain  of  the  listener  as  moonlight 
clings  to  deep,  dark  waters.  At  last,  with  intellectual 
delicacy,  they  are  hurriedly  slipped  off ;  for  soon  the 
respectable  folk,  whom  he  gave  the  slip  to  early  in  the 
evening,  will  return,  and  he  must  not  be  seen  in  such  com- 
pany again.  The  old  shellbacks  grip  the  extended,  thin, 
delicate  hand,  look  into  the  keen  eyes  and  wipe  their  mouths 
as  they  go  down  the  narrow  track.  "  He's  a  gentleman  'e 

is,  d d  if  Je  ain't,"  they  say  to  each  other,  as  the  silent, 

lonely  man  they  have  just  left  sits  and  dreams  on  alone, 
and  thinks  and  feels  those  things  that  no  book  ever  did,  or 
ever  can,  tell. 

A  few  miles  away  lives  the  great  high  chief  Mataafa ;  he 
knows  Tusitala,  the  writer  of  tales.  Mataafa  is  the  old  King 
of  Samoa  :  his  warriors  have  charged  up  those  slopes  and 
the  sound  of  the  guns  from  the  enemy's  warships  echoed  and 
re-echoed  across  the  bay.  It  is  all  like  some  far-off  dream 

61 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

to  me  that  in  my  boyhood  I  should  have  met  and  fiddled 
to  the  Napoleon  of  the  South  Seas,  for  Mataafa  was  exiled, 
though  there  the  similarity  ends.  I  can  still  see  the  hand- 
some, intelligent  face  and  remember  the  quick,  kind  eyes 
of  Samoa's  dethroned  king.  I  did  not  know,  or  at  least 
realise,  who  Mataafa  was,  as  he  sat  on  a  chest  in  the  schooner's 
cabin  in  Apia  harbour.  I  knew  he  was  someone  important 
by  the  skipper's  behaviour  and  respectful  attention.  Only 
long  after  did  I  clearly  realise  that  I  was  in  at  the  death 
at  one  of  the  most  tragic  periods  of  Samoa's  history.  I 
helped  row  the  exiled  king  ashore  and  went  with  him  to 
Mulinuu  village,  where  I  stayed  the  night,  and  then  rowed 
him  back  in  the  ship's  boat  again.  Had  I  known  the  truth 
I  would  have  clung  to  the  old  king  with  all  the  romantic 
vigour  of  my  soul.  The  opportunity  of  my  boyish  dreams  had 
presented  itself,  but  I  knew  it  not.  How  I  would  have 
striven  to  lean  on  that  chieftain's  right  arm,  helping  in  some 
tragical  drama  of  war  and  intrigue  that  would  have  given 
me  the  fame  that  my  boyish  aspirations  yearned  for  as  I 
read  the  novels  of  Alexandre  Dumas.  Alas  !  I  can  only 
remember  a  sad,  aged  face  in  a  South  Sea  forest  homestead, 
in  a  schooner's  dingy  cabin,  or  earnestly  talking  under  the 
forest  trees  by  night  to  loyal  chiefs  ere  he  returned  to  the  ship. 
I  saw  him  three  or  four  times  ashore,  and  entertained  him 
in  the  refuge  where  he  lived  with  his  faithful  chiefs.  Also 
I  played  the  violin  to  him  several  times,  while  he  smiled 
gravely  and  the  garrulous  skipper  drank  whisky  and  sang 
out  of  tune,  or  read  out  loudly  snatches  from  The  Samoan 
Times,  which  was  a  paper  something  after  the  style  in  size 
of  The  Dead  Bird,  published  in  Sydney,  but  suppressed  and 
issued  again  as  The  Bird  of  Freedom. 

Behind  the  stores  in  Apia's  street  is  the  primeval  ball- 
room where  I  played  the  violin  to  the  Samoan  grandees, 
and  to  tripping,  white-shoed  German  officials,  while  five  half- 
caste  girls  in  pink  frocks,  with  crimson  ribbons  in  their 
forests  of  hair,  went  through  the  Siva  dances.  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  gazed  on,  or  argued  with  the  crusty  German 
official,  who  was  red  in  the  face  as  Stevenson  expressed  his 
opinions  on  Samoan  politics.  Just  below  too,  down  the 

62 


MEIN  GOTT  !    MEIN  GOTT  ! 

street,  is  the  bar-room,  where  I  played  the  violin  with  the 
manager's  wife,  who  was  a  good  pianist.  I  only  performed 
there  once :  a  trader  was  half-seas  over  and  was  arguing 
with  a  German  official ;  suddenly  he  picked  my  violin  up  and 
hit  the  German  over  the  head  with  it.  There  was  a  great 
scene  and  the  trader  was  thrown  out.  Everyone  laughed 
to  see  the  look  on  my  face  as  I  scanned  the  fiddle  to  see  if 
it  had  been  damaged ;  even  the  manager  and  his  wife  put 
their  fists  in  their  mouths  to  hide  a  noisy  smile.  The 
German  shouted :  "  Mein  Gott !  I  vill  see  that  this  mans 
be  arrested!  Mein  Gott !  Mein  Gott  1" 

It's  a  lively  place,  this  Samoan  isle.  There  sits  an  aged, 
tattooed  native  from  Motootua  village.  He  is  a  wandering 
scribe,  a  poet  and  author  of  the  South  Seas,  and  well  beloved 
by  all  his  critics,  who  mostly  wear  no  clothes  !  He  does  not 
write  on  paper,  but  engraves  on  the  brains  of  his  audiences 
his  memories,  impromptu  poems  and  improvisations  ;  or  he 
tells  of  Samoan  history  and  poetic  lore.  He  wears  the 
primitive  ridi  to  his  bony  knees  and  a  large  shawl  of  native 
tappu-cloth  round  his  brown  shoulders  ;  tall  and  majestic- 
looking,  with  strong,  imaginative  face,  when  he  stands  quite 
still  and  lifts  one  arm  to  heaven  he  looks  like  an  exiled 
scapegrace  god. 

With  eyes  shining  brilliantly  he  tells  you  the  tale  of  creation, 
how  man-  and  woman -kind  came  on  earth.  Ages  ago  a  giant 
turtle,  like  a  fish  that  walked  on  a  thousand  legs,  came  up 
from  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  and  saw  the  blue  sky  for  the 
first  time,  and  far  away  the  coral  reefs  and  forest-clad  shores 
of  Samoa.  Full  of  excitement,  it  slashed  its  tail,  swam  to 
the  isle  and  crept  ashore.  Once  on  dry  land  it  could  not 
move  and  get  back  to  its  native  ocean  again.  The  sun 
blazed  on  its  tremendous  back  as  it  crouched  and  died,  and 
underneath  its  vast  shell  a  plot  of  tiny  crimson  and  blue 
flowers  trembled  with  fear  in  the  sudden  darkness  that  had 
fallen  over  them.  When  the  giant  turtle  was  dead  its  crumb- 
ling flesh  fed  the  flowers  with  moisture,  while  they  cried 
bitterly  at  being  hidden  from  the  beautiful  golden  sunlight. 
When  only  the  shell  was  left,  and  the  sun  was  shining  beauti- 
fully, the  flowers  peeped  out  and  saw  the  green  hills  and  coco- 

63 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

palms,  and  found  that  they  were  able  to  move  :  out  they  all 
ran  and  tripped  up  the  shore,  a  delighted  flock  of  laughing 
faces,  and  climbed  the  coco-nut  and  palm  trees — they  were 
Samoan  girls  ! 

That  same  night  a  cloud  was  leisurely  travelling  across  the 
clear  skies  with  a  cargo  of  male  stars  asleep  on  its  breast ; 
and  as  it  passed  right  over  the  very  spot  where  the  new  girls 
were  climbing  and  clinging  to  the  trees,  the  high  chief  of 
the  stars,  who  was  old  and  grey,  looked  over  the  side  of  the 
cloud  and  was  astonished,  for  he  saw  the  girls  and  at  once 
called  loudly  to  the  youthful,  sleeping  stars,  who  rubbed  their 
eyes  and  jumped  up.  They  were  beautiful  youths  with 
bright  faces.  "  Look  down  there,"  said  the  old,  grey  star, 
and  all  the  young  stars  looked  and  saw  the  Samoan  maidens 
climbing  about  the  tree -tops.  "  Oh,  what  shall  we  do  to  get 
down  to  them  ?  "  they  all  wailed,  and  the  old,  grey  star  said, 
"  Ah,  you  were  happy  till  I  awoke  you  from  sleep,  but  now 
your  passions  are  awake  and  you  cry  aloud  for  sorrow." 
Then  they  all  became  impatient  and  fierce,  and  cried  out : 
"  Stop  the  cloud,  stop  the  cloud  "  ;  and  the  old,  grey-bearded 
star  sighed  and  said  :  "So  shall  it  be."  The  moon  at  once 
shone  out  in  the  sky  and  the  old  leader  put  his  hand  up  to  the 
orb  and  filled  his  arms  with  beautiful  moonlight  ere  he  struck 
the  cloud  with  his  magic  breath  and  the  thick,  dark  mist 
dissolving  fell  as  sparkling  rain  softly  to  the  isle  far  below. 
The  bright  moonlight  clinging  to  the  falling  drops  made  ropes 
of  moonbeams  dangle  to  the  forest  tree -tops,  on  which  the 
laughing  stars  slid  as  they  went  down,  down — as  beautiful 
youths,  to  fall  into  the  outstretched  arms  of  the  surprised 
maidens.  And  that's  how  man  and  woman  first  came  to  the 
Samoan  Isles ! 

Many  more  were  the  strange  but  really  poetic  tales  told  by 
him  and  by  other  wandering  authors,  but  their  memories  and 
the  children  of  their  poetic  imaginations  are  forgotten  for  ever. 
I  do  not  think  many  of  the  old-time  South  Sea  legends  have 
ever  been  collected  and  translated,  and  so  they  only  survive 
in  the  biographical  writing  of  men  who  visited  the  islands 
and  happened  to  have  retentive  memories  for  such  things  as 
poetic  lore,  and  so  preserved  some  of  those  old  fragments  of 

64 


BEHIND  THE  VEIL 

Samoan  stories,  as  I  have  attempted  to  do  from  my 
recollection  of  many  of  them. 

The  lore  of  the  South  Seas  has  faded  and  has  been  replaced 
by  tragic  human  drama  and  rumour.  Subject  matter  for  three- 
volume  novels  is  plentiful  in  Samoa  ;  indeed  throughout 
the  whole  of  the  South  Seas  you  could  draw  and  never  drain 
dry  the  living  fountains  of  human  drama. 

Peaceful-looking  homesteads,  clean,  religious  and  happy, 
abound,  but  some  are  tense  with  passion.  By  the  mission 
room  down  at  Mulinuu  lives  pretty  Lavo ;  she  is  only  sixteen 
and  deeply  religious.  She  loves  the  handsome  white  mission- 
ary with  all  her  soul,  but  dares  not  speak  out  or  confess. 
Eventually  he  goes  away  back  to  his  own  country,  and  a  few 
days  later  they  find  poor  Lavo's  body  in  the  lagoon.  She 
looks  beautiful  even  in  death,  as  she  still  clutches  the  photo- 
graph of  the  homeward-bound  missionary.  Her  native 
relatives  wring  their  hands  and  wail ;  they  lay  her  in  the 
native  cemetery  just  by  the  plateau,  and  sing  sadly  of  her 
childhood  till  she  is  forgotten. 

A  white  man  was  found  with  the  side  of  his  head  blown  off 
last  night ;  he  arrived  at  Apia  a  week  ago,  looking  worried 
and  haggard.  All  evidence  of  his  identity  had  been  destroyed 
by  him,  excepting  a  torn,  half-obliterated  letter  which  reads 
like  this  : 

"  MY  OWN  DEAR  R .    Yes,  I  still  love  you,  and  will  not 

believe  you  did  that.  I  read  the  full  account  in  this  morn- 
ing's Chronicle.  My  heart  is  heavy,  dear  ;  give  yourself  up 
and  face  it.  Oh,  my  darling,  don't  leave  the  country.  I 
love  you,  and  will  die,  I  am  sure,  if  you  go  away.  Meet  me 
to-night  at  same  place.  I  long  to  see  your  poor  dear  face. 
God  watch  over  you.  Yours  ever,  E ." 

The  German  High  Commissioner  kept  the  revolver  that 
was  found  by  the  dead  man's  side,  and  his  fat  old  wife  took 
possession  of  the  photograph  that  was  found  on  him.  She 
has  tacked  it  up  on  her  bedroom  wall ;  it's  such  a  nice,  happy- 
looking,  girlish  face.  They  buried  the  suicide  in  the  whites' 
cemetery,  at  the  far  end,  among  the  "  no-name  graves." 
E  65 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

On  the  slopes  around  Apia  a  few  emigrants  from  far-off 
countries  live  in  comfortable  bungalows.  They  are  happy 
with  their  wives  and  children.  Their  memory  of  the  cities 
and  turmoil  of  the  old  country  is  sweeter  for  the  dreaming 
distance  ;  they  were  a  bit  homesick  at  first,  but  now  they 
have  become  contented  and  love  the  new  peaceful  surround- 
ings, and  look  forward  to  the  arrival  of  the  mails.  They  still 
suffer,  though,  with  the  unrestful  disease  of  the  far-away 
suburban  towns  of  advanced  civilisation,  and  so  cannot  sleep 
for  wondering  who  the  strange  couple  are  who  rent  the 
solitary  bungalow  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  up  in  the  hills. 
It  is  quite  evident  that  the  new-comer  is  a  gentleman,  for 
he  speaks  well  and  has  polished  ways,  but  his  wife  talks 
like  a  servant -girl ;  she's  pretty,  though.  They  arrived 
suddenly  in  Apia,  and  three  months  after  the  baby  was  born. 
He  seems  very  fond  of  the  baby,  and  the  mother  too,  but  he 
often  gets  very  despondent.  He's  a  handsome  man  and  does 
not  look  a  bit  practical ;  indeed  he  looks  as  though  for  the 
sake  of  affection  and  his  word  he  would  sacrifice  all  ambition 
and  leave  the  world  behind  him.  He  seems  to  hate  respect- 
able people,  and  only  goes  down  to  the  Apia  bar-rooms  to 
mix  with  old  sailors  and  traders  and  the  remnants  of  the 
beach ;  he  stands  treat  and  is  a  godsend  to  them,  for  he 
seems  to  have  plenty  of  cash.  One  old  shellback  entertains 
him  for  hours  with  wonderful  tales  of  other  days,  and  his 
comrades  sit  by  and  silently  smoke  and  drink  as  the  bar 
becomes  hazy  with  tobacco  smoke.  The  lights  grow  dim 
as  the  old  sailor's  yarn  rolls  the  world  back,  and  in  the  now 
romantic  atmosphere  of  the  bar  shades  of  old  pioneers  dance 
ghostly  wise  ;  old  schooners  and  slave  galleons  are  anchored 
in  the  harbour  ;  you  can  hear  the  laughter  and  song  of  dead 
sailors  and  traders.  They  are  dancing  jigs,  their  sea-boots 
shuffle,  under  the  coco-palms  just  outside  the  bar-room,  the 
bright  eyes  of  dark  native  girls  shine  as  they  whirl  clinging 
to  their  arms  :  how  they  welcome  the  white  men  from  the 
far-away  Western  world — the  men  whose  ships  long  ago  died 
down  the  seaward  sunsets,  and  faded  away  beyond  the  sky- 
line into  Time's  silent  sea  ere  our  generation  was  born. 
Out  on  the  promontory  sits  the  high  chief  Tuputo  in  his 

66 


BARBARIANS  AND  SAINTS 

homestead.  He  has  a  noble,  wrinkled,  tattooed  face,  and, 
though  he  belongs  to  the  old  school,  he  wears  glasses.  The 
lizard  slips  across  his  moonlit  floor,  and  through  his  door  he 
can  see  the  silvered  waves  and  the  wind-stirred  coco-nut  trees 
twinkling  by  the  barrier  reefs  ;  the  waves  are  breaking  and 
wailing  as  they  wailed  and  broke  in  his  childhood.  He  has 
been  a  sailor  in  the  South  Seas ;  he  remembers  tribal  wars 
in  Fiji  and  Samoa  and  has  refused  many  invitations  to  secret 
cannibalistic  festivals.  Now  he  sits  reading  the  English 
newspapers,  for  long  ago  they  taught  him  to  read  English, 
and  he  is  a  staunch  Catholic.  Often  he  reads  and  wonders 
over  the  terrible  crimes  that  are  reported  in  the  police  news 
of  his  late-dated  London  newspapers.  He  had  once,  long 
ago,  thought  that  England  and  New  York  were  sinless  lands 
ethereal  with  Christian  dreams,  imparadised  cities,  their 
spires  glittering  in  the  sunlight  of  the  Golden  Age.  If  not, 
why  did  missionaries  leave  them  to  come  across  the  big  seas 
to  Samoa,  and  all  the  isles  of  the  Southern  Seas  ? 

The  great  world  war  has  not  commenced  yet,  but  even 
now  his  withered  hands  itch  to  clutch  his  disused  war-club 
and  sally  forth  to  take  revenge  on  those  white  men  who 
laugh  at  his  majestic  bearing  ;  those  men  who  stole  his  isles 
and  brought  rum  and  vice  to  contaminate  the  virtue  of  his 
race.  How  spiteful  will  he  feel  when  he  wipes  his  spectacles, 
and,  astonished,  reads  the  truth !  But  then  he  will  cool 
down,  look  at  his  innocent  old  war-club  on  his  homestead 
wall  and  offer  his  humble  services  for  the  vast  tribalistic  war 
clash  in  the  white  man's  lands,  while  Thakambau  and  Tano, 
the  cannibal  kings,  and  Ritova  and  King  Naulivan,  who 
never  heard  the  word  culture,  sigh  and  turn  in  their  graves 
to  think  that  they  are  dead,  while  the  very  world  is  trembling 
with  glorious,  bloodthirsty  battle.  Ah,  well,  their  children's 
children  are  coming  to  help  us  :  may  the  old  Thakambau 
spirit  still  be  alive  in  their  blood  to  help  the  advance  of 
culture — the  civilisation  of  sad  humanity.  Let  us  hope,  too, 
that  our  semi-savage  Allies  will  not  eat  the  fallen  foe  !  But 
I  must  proceed  with  my  own  wanderings,  for  I  have  a  long 
wray  to  travel  yet. 

Samoa  still  rises  silently  in  moonlight  out  of  the  sea  of  my 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

dreams.  I  can  hear  the  barbarian  orchestra  clanging  away 
down  in  the  native  village,  as  Samoan  girls  and  youths,  and 
two  or  three  white  men,  waltz  under  the  palms  just  below 
the  plateau,  where  groves  of  orange-trees  hang  their  golden 
fruit  amongst  dark  leaves.  As  I  play  the  violin  the  semi- 
savage  people  whirl  to  the  wild  rhythm  of  the  forest  ball- 
room music  of  a  tribal  waltz. 


TRIBAL   WALTZ. 

( Barbarian. ) 
Tempo  di  False.        _  .0.  .0.  - 


1 


Composed  by 

A.  S.  M. 


*35SEt 


etc. 


Fed.  I  ^ 


espress. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson — Bohemian  Incidents — I  lead  a  Tribal 
Orchestra — The  Big  Drum — Robert  Louis  Stevenson  at  a  Tribal 
Wedding — Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  the  Grog  Shanty — Mr 
and  Mrs  Stevenson — The  Last  Man-eater  of  the  Marquesan 
Group 

I  NOTICED  that  the  brief  incidents  in  my  first  book, 
Sailor  and  Beachcomber,  concerning  my  personal 
recollections  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  were  received 
with  an  interest  which  I  had  not  expected.  Had  I  antici- 
pated this,  or  had  he  struck  me  as  an  adventurous  old  shell- 
back of  crime  and  sea-lore,  I  should  have  dwelt  more  on  the 
subject,  but  so  much  has  been  written  about  Stevenson's  life 
in  the  South  Seas,  by  men  who  have  devoted  volumes  to 
their  reminiscences  of  that  novelist,  that  I  deliberately  left 
the  matter  alone. 

As  far  as  Stevenson  the  literary  man  is  concerned  I,  of 
course,  have  nothing  whatever  to  add,  excepting,  perhaps, 
that  Stevenson's  books  dealing  with  the  South  Seas  did  not 
strike  me  as  being  as  realistic  and  breezy  as  I  had  expected 
them  to  be,  coming  from  such  fresh  experience  and  so  able  a 
pen.  But  having  often  seen  him  in  Samoa  and  elsewhere, 
out  of  the  limelight  and  under  circumstances  that  have 
never,  as  far  as  I  know,  been  written  about  before,  I  feel 
that  I  may  as  well  tell  at  length  the  few  incidents  that  I 
think  may  be  of  interest.  I  cannot  do  this  better  than  by 
pursuing  my  own  reminiscences,  and  so  I  will  revert  to  my 
first  visits  to  Samoa  when  I  was  a  lad  of  about  sixteen  years 
of  age. 

Stevenson  was  at  that  time  residing  at  Vailima,  Upulo.  I 
had  met  him  several  times  in  Apia  and  at  sea,  for  at  that 
time  I  was  always  cruising  on  the  trading  schooners  and 
visited  most  of  the  chief  islands  in  the  North  and  South 
Pacific.  I  eventually  got  on  a  schooner  that  ran  between 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Samoa  and  Suva  (Fiji),  and  it  was  on  these  return  trips  to 
Apia,  and  during  my  sojourns  there,  that  I  saw  Stevenson 
frequently,  which  was  natural  enough,  since  he  lived  there 
and  hundreds  of  men  became  acquainted  with  him  in  that 
isolated  paradise,  where  conventionality,  as  it  is  known  in 
Western  civilisation,  was  completely  dropped,  and  all  men 
became  hail-fellow-well-met  as  soon  as  they  sighted  each 
other.  Even  missionaries  practised  this  outward  appearance 
of  brotherhood. 

I  recall  how  I  was  sitting  in  a  German  store  in  April  one 
afternoon  when  a  Samoan,  who  knew  me  well,  approached 
me  and  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  come  that  same  evening 
to  a  grand  tribal  wedding  festival  that  was  to  be  held  five 
miles  off,  round  the  coast.  "And  will  you  bring  your 
violin  ?  "  he  inquired.  I  accepted,  and  my  companion,  a 
young  American  sailor  who  had  a  banjo,  agreed  to  go  with  me. 
I  was  well  known  among  the  chiefs  and  natives  as  an  obliging 
violinist,  for  I  seldom  refused  to  perform  at  native  cere- 
monies ;  the  scenes  that  I  witnessed,  indeed  the  novelty 
and  romance  of  it  all,  amply  repaid  me  for  all  the  trouble  I 
was  ever  put  to,  though  that  is  saying  a  good  deal,  for  my 
troubles  were  sometimes  serious  ones. 

That  same  afternoon  my  friend  and  I  tuned  our  instru- 
ments up  and  made  ourselves  look  as  smart  as  possible,  for 
the  chief  who  was  giving  the  ball  was  one  of  high  standing, 
and  a  well-known  follower  of  Mataafa,  the  ex-King  of  Samoa. 

In  high  spirits  we  started  off  to  tramp  the  five  miles  which 
had  to  be  covered  before  we  reached  our  destination.  We 
had  not  walked  more  than  three  hundred  yards  from  Apia's 
main  street  when  suddenly  Stevenson  appeared  with  several 
of  his  acquaintances,  coming  across  the  slopes  carrying  fish 
which  they  had  purchased  from  the  natives  down  by  the 
beach. 

Stevenson  turned  and  saw  us,  and  noticing  that  we  were 
carrying  musical  instruments,  he  came  up  and  said  in  a 
jocular  way :  "  Where  arc  you  hurrying  off  to  ?  The  Lyceum 
Orchestra  ?  "  Whereupon  I  told  him  our  destination  and 
he  immediately  became  interested.  "  Are  you  in  a  hurry  ? 
I  should  like  to  come,"  he  said  quickly.  I  assured  him  that 

70 


WHAXGAREI  FALLS,  NORTH  AUCKLAND,  N.Z. 


THE  MISSING  DRUMS 

we  were  in  no  hurry,  and  told  him  we  would  wait ;  but  as  his 
friends  were  becoming  impatient  he  said  that  he  would  come 
on  later,  and  so  off  we  went  without  him. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  coast  village  where  the  ball  was 
to  be  given,  my  friend  and  I  sat  down  under  the  palms 
exhausted,  for  the  walk  was  a  long  one  and  the  heat  terrific. 
Just  before  us  was  the  native  village,  groups  of  conical,  shed- 
like  houses,  sheltered  by  coco-palms  growing  to  the  shore's 
edge. 

As  we  sat  wiping  the  perspiration  from  our  brows,  the 
village  was  all  astir  with  excitement  over  the  approaching 
festival.  Native  girls,  dressed  in  picturesque  style,  passed 
by  us  along  the  track  :  they  were  jabbering  excitedly  to  each 
other  over  the  beauty  of  the  bride  who  had  been  married 
that  day,  and  who  was  to  appear  at  the  feast  that  evening 
to  dance  and  reveal  her  manifold  beauties  to  the  village 
maids  and  youths  ere  she  went  off  on  the  honeymoon  to  the 
bridegroom's  home. 

The  shadows  were  falling  over  the  palm-clad  shores  of  the 
wild  coast  and  village  of  Samoa  as  the  sun  dropped  seaward. 
So  my  friend  and  I  started  off  once  more  and  arrived  at 
Kalofa's  distinguished  residence.  Kalofa  was  the  bride's 
father,  and  a  wealthy  man  for  a  native.  We  were  greeted 
with  loud  cries  in  joyous  Samoan  phrases  as  we  arrived, 
carrying  the  violin  and  banjo  under  our  arms.  As  we 
entered  the  large  primitive  ballroom,  a  shed  that  held  about 
two  hundred  people,  an  old  Samoan  at  once  started  crashing 
away  at  a  monster  wooden  drum,  and  another  drum-player 
inside  the  shed  did  likewise.  The  noise  was  deafening,  and 
the  more  so  because  the  ballroom  instrument  was  a  large 
European  drum  that  had  been  purchased  from  one  of  the 
American  warships  that  had  come  into  Apia  harbour. 
This  drum  was  lent  out  at  a  high  charge  on  special  occasions 
by  the  chiefs.  I  forget  who  was  the  original  owner,  but  I 
know  that  he  was  quite  a  wealthy  man  through  the  money 
he  received  from  his  drum  receipts,  and  I  often  regretted 
that  I  had  not  known  the  tastes  of  Samoans,  or  I  should  have 
arrived  at  Samoa  with  a  cargo  of  old  army  drums  and  made 
a  fortune. 

7* 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Well,  as  we  entered  the  ballroom  Kalofa  himself  rushed 
forward  and  greeted  us  affectionately  before  all  the  chiefs 
as  though  he  had  known  us  for  many  years.  I  had  only  seen 
him  once  before,  and  my  cheerful  companion  the  banjoist 
had  never  seen  him  till  that  moment.  Nevertheless  we  met 
him  as  though  we  were  the  oldest  friends,  and  bowed  respect- 
fully as  the  whole  audience  arose  and  waved  their  dark  hands 
as  they  cheered  us.  It  was  a  wonderful  sight  that  we  saw 
round  us,  for  right  to  the  far  end  of  the  large,  low  room  sat 
in  half  circles  the  61ite  of  the  native  village,  dressed  in  all  the 
colours  and  grotesque  garments  imaginable.  Handsome 
Samoan  girls,  half  dressed  and  quarter  dressed,  were  squat- 
ting amongst  old  tattooed  chiefs  who  wore  the  ridi  only, 
while  lines  of  old  women  sat  with  the  handsome  youths,  who 
glanced  behind  them  at  the  girls  who,  I  suppose,  were  being 
looked  after  by  the  chiefs.  The  code  of  morals  in  Samoa  was 
becoming  very  strict,  so  many  maids  having  been  tempted 
by  the  amorous  youths  to  do  things  which  they  ought  not  to 
do.  In  the  centre  of  the  throng  was  the  barbaric  orchestra. 
I  have  led  and  conducted  many  orchestras  and  bands  during 
my  time,  but  never  such  a  deliberately  planned  inharmonious 
ear-torturing  lot  of  musicians  as  I  led  that  night.  I  think 
the  instrumentation  was  chiefly  strings  and  wind  ;  the  former 
consisted  of  wires  strung  across  gourds  and  the  latter  of 
bamboo  flutes,  old  coppers  and  the  drum  which  I  have 
previously  mentioned. 

I  sat  down  in  the  middle  of  the  orchestral  players,  squat- 
ting, with  my  comrade  by  my  side,  on  a  mat,  and  all  the 
native  musicians  around  me  gazed  with  great  curiosity  as  I 
started  to  tune  the  violin,  and  my  comrade  to  pink-ee-tee- 
ponk  on  his  banjo  ;  indeed,  so  great  was  their  curiosity  that 
they  arose  from  their  mats  and  poked  their  faces  against  our 
instruments.  Hitting  my  violin  with  the  bow,  so — tap-tap, 
I  made  a  sign  to  them  to  take  their  seats,  and  then  the  over- 
ture commenced !  My  comrade  and  I  tore  away  at  the 
strings.  I  forget  what  we  had  proposed  to  play,  but  as  soon 
as  we  started  and  the  members  of  the  orchestra  heard  the 
violin  wailing,  they  went  completely  mad  with  delight,  and 
then  tried  to  outdo  us  ;  so  placing  their  flutes  to  their  dusky 

72 


THE  CHIEF  WITNESS  AT  THE  WEDDING 

mouths  they  all  started  to  blow  terrifically,  and  the  drums 
started  off  and  the  stringed  gourds  twanged  !  In  a  moment 
I  realised  that  to  keep  up  our  musical  reputation  we  must 
outdo  the  barbarian  music,  so  I  signed  to  my  comrade,  who 
looked  at  me  as  though  he  had  gone  mad,  and  then  started  to 
grind  away  at  all  my  violin  strings  at  once  !  I  believe  we 
both  caught  the  primitive,  barbarian  fever,  for  though  the 
row  was  terrible  my  memory  of  it  all  is  one  of  some  far-off 
event  of  supreme  musical  delight !  Not  Wagner's  wildest 
dreams,  no  Futurist's  idea  of  harmony  could  have  outdone 
the  reality  of  that  tribal  music.  Then  suddenly  it  all  changed 
from  thunder  to  weird  sweetness,  minor  melodies  of  sad,  for- 
gotten loves  and  dreams,  for  on  a  little  elevated  bamboo 
platform  the  bride  stood  before  us.  She  was  a  dusky, 
tender-limbed  maiden  of  about  sixteen  years  of  age.  Dressed 
in  a  blue  frock  that  went  no  higher  than  her  brown  bosom, 
fastened  on  by  a  red  sash,  her  thick  hair  bedecked  with 
tropical  blossoms,  she  looked  like  the  beautiful  dusky 
princess  from  a  South  Sea  novel.  Her  husband,  a  fine- 
looking  Samoan  of  about  thirty,  stood  beside  her  as  she 
gazed  up  into  his  admiring  eyes  and  sang  a  tender  song  of 
love.  It  was  a  really  beautiful  melody  and  I  at  once  caught 
the  spirit  of  it,  and  as  she  sang  on  sweetly  I  extemporised 
a  delicate  accompaniment  on  my  violin,  interspersed  with 
minor  pizzicatos.  As  soon  as  she  ceased  her  song  a  tiny 
child  stepped  forth,  and  kissing  her  feet  handed  her  a  large 
bouquet  of  richly  coloured  forest  flowers ;  then  the  bride- 
groom stooped  and  kissed  the  child  on  the  brow  as  all  the 
audience  solemnly  murmured  "  O  whey — O  whey  "  three 
times.  This  child  was  a  relative  of  the  bride's,  and  not  her 
own  child  ;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  this  was  often  the 
case  in  tribal  weddings  at  which  I  had  officiated  as  violinist, 
where  often  the  custom  was  that  the  bride's  first-born  came 
as  chief  witness  to  the  altar,  and  sometimes  was  old  enough 
to  toddle  all  the  way  ! 

When  she  had  sung  one  more  island  ditty  to  her  delighted 
husband  the  Siva  dance  commenced.  Through  a  little  door 
behind  the  stage  came  about  a  dozen  girls  clad  only  in  flowers 
and  grass,  and  when  they  had  squatted  in  a  circle  on  the 

73 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

stage  they  started  to  beat  their  bare  limbs  with  their  hands 
as  they  chanted,  and  the  orchestra  went  tootle-tootle  on  the 
bamboo  flutes. 

As  the  time  passed  the  audience  increased  ;  chiefs,  half- 
castes  and  many  high-caste  natives  were  there.  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  arrived,  with  his  face  wreathed  with  smiles, 
and  stood  just  inside  the  door,  watching  and  talking  to  the 
natives.  The  old  ex-King  Mataafa,  who  was  at  that  time 
residing  at  Malie  with  his  faithful  followers,  was  also  there 
and  stood  talking  to  our  host,  who  was,  I  believe,  related  to 
Samoan  royalty.  Mataafa  was  a  very  intelligent-looking  old 
man,  well  dressed  and  with  a  majestic  walk.  About  that  time 
there  was  a  deal  of  trouble  brewing  between  the  subjects  of 
Mataafa  and  those  who  stood  by  King  Malietoa,  and  possibly 
the  old  king  was  travelling  incognito,  for  he  hardly  revealed 
himself,  but  stopped  in  the  shadows. 

Stevenson  went  round  behind  the  audience  to  him  and 
was  greeted  very  warmly  ;  they  evidently  knew  each  other 
well. 

As  the  festival  proceeded,  and  the  bowl  of  kava  was  handed 
round,  the  chiefs  and  women -folk  became  excited,  while  out- 
side under  the  moonlit  coco-palms  the  girls  and  youths  started 
to  dance  and  caper  about.  My  friend  and  I  took  the  first 
opportunity  to  get  outside,  for  the  heat  was  stifling  hi  side 
"  the  hall." 

When  we  arrived  in  the  fresh  air  Stevenson  was  standing 
by  the  doorway  smoking.  "  Hallo  1  there  you  are  ;  I'm 
sorry,  but  I  was  too  late  to  see  the  beginning,"  he  said,  and 
then  added  :  "  That  bride  was  a  beautiful  girl,  wasn't  she  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  as  several  native  girls  came  up  to  us, 
and,  laughing,  seized  us  and  invited  us  to  dance.  The  girl 
who  had  gripped  hold  of  Stevenson  was  a  very  wild  but 
good-looking  maid,  and  gazing  up  into  his  face  she  started 
to  make  eyes  at  him.  Stevenson  looked  round  laughingly 
and  then  accepted  the  invitation  of  the  girl  to  dance  with  her, 
and  so  off  they  went !  As  far  as  I  can  remember  the  novelist 
was  a  good  dancer  and  looked  at  his  ease  as  he  held  the 
Samoan  beauty  in  his  arms  and  gently  whirled  with  her  under 
the  coco-palms. 

74 


R.  L.  S.  DANCES  WITH  A  DTJSKY  MAID 

All  the  time  that  Stevenson  and  I  were  dancing  the  native 
orchestra  was  booming  and  shrieking  away  in  the  festival 
shed,  and  often  we  heard  the  old  native  drum-conductor  cry 
out  "  O  Le  Sivo,"  and  then  came  a  terrible  crash  as  he 
struck  the  old  army  drum  with  a  war  club  I 

Stevenson  seemed  delighted  with  himself  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  we  got  too  hot  and,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the 
maids,  stopped.  They  were  cool  enough  in  their  scanty 
attire,  but  we  were  bathed  in  perspiration  and  fairly  steamed 
in  the  moonlight  as  we  suddenly  stood  still. 

Now  I  am  coming  to  the  comical  part  of  it  all,  for  Steven- 
son's partner  proceeded  to  make  violent  love  to  him,  and  the 
look  on  his  face  made  it  quite  obvious  that  he  was  beginning 
to  feel  uncomfortable,  for  he  eventually  walked  off  and  she 
at  once  followed  him  !  He  made  several  attempts  to  get  rid 
of  her  by  talking  to  a  native  who  stood  by,  but  still  the  girl 
persisted,  till  he  suddenly  walked  up  to  me  and  said,  "  I  say, 
for  God's  sake  get  her  away  somewhere  ;  dance  with  her,  do 
anything  to  attract  her  attention."  I  at  once  went  to  the 
rescue  and  asked  her  to  dance.  I  was  not  much  of  a  dancer, 
but  as  a  lover  I  have  always  been  passable  !  Stevenson 
seemed  very  grateful,  but  only  expressed  it  by  walking  off 
in  great  haste  as  I  clutched  the  girl  tightly. 

No  sooner  had  Stevenson  got  out  of  sight  than  she  started 
on  me,  threw  her  arms  about  my  neck  and  began  to  say 
loving  things  about  my  beauty,  I  suppose,  in  her  own 
language.  Several  natives  were  standing  under  the  trees, 
shaking  with  laughter  as  they  watched  us :  one  of  them 
touched  his  forehead  significantly  and  then  I  realised  that 
the  girl  was  not  quite  right  in  the  head  !  "  I  say,  Hill,"  I 
said,  as  I  quickly  turned  to  my  comrade,  "  she  wants  you  to 
dance  with  her  ;  do  take  her,  old  fellow."  "  Right  you  are," 
he  answered,  for  he  was  an  obliging  fellow  in  that  way,  and 
then  I  also  bolted  and  went  off,  toward  the  chief's  Fale- 
Faipule  (the  head  residence),  to  get  my  violin,  which  I  had 
left  in  his  care  for  safety.  As  I  approached  the  bamboo  door 
I  saw  Stevenson  peeping  through  a  chink !  "  Has  she 
gone  ?  "  he  said.  "  Yes,  I've  got  rid  of  her  ;  she  is  a  bit 
wrong  in  the  head,"  I  answered.  Then,  as  Stevenson  came 

75 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

out  into  the  open,  ready  to  start  away  home,  to  our  astonish- 
ment the  girl  we  were  talking  about  ran  across  the  grass  and 

embraced  him  once  more  !  "  Well  I'm  d d  !  "  he  said, 

and  at  that  moment  two  natives  came  across  the  track  and 
collared  her.  I  think  they  were  her  parents  ;  anyway  they 
took  her  off,  and  Stevenson  hurried  off  also,  for  the  hour  was 
late  and  the  code  of  morals  strict  in  the  Vailima  domestic 
establishment. 

My  friend  and  I  got  back  to  Apia  soon  after.  I  slept 
soundly  and  dreamed  of  dusky  brides  and  mad  lovers.  So 
ended  that  wedding  as  far  as  I  was  concerned. 

A  few  days  after  the  preceding  events  I  saw  Stevenson 
again.  It  was  in  the  daytime,  and  I  and  my  friend  were 
busy  packing  up  cases  of  tinned  food,  which  had  just  arrived 
from  Sydney  on  the  s.s.  Lubeck,  which  generally  called  at 
Apia  every  month.  Adjoining  the  storeroom — where  we 
were  assisting  in  packing  the  cases — was  a  grog  shanty's  bar- 
room. The  reputation  that  this  shanty  had  was  an  evil  one, 
for  it  was  only  visited  by  the  beach  fraternity  who  lived 
solely  on  rum,  and  by  Samoan  women  who  welcomed  German 
sailors  to  their  dusky  arms  after  dark.  In  broad  daylight 
it  was  a  bona-fide  beach  hotel,  frequented  by  traders  who  had 
no  reputation  to  lose,  yet  who  seemed  the  happiest  of  men 
as  they  told  fearless  tales  to  their  rough  comrades,  squirted 
tobacco  juice  in  endless  streams  through  the  open  door  and 
drank  fiery  rum. 

Well,  suddenly  Stevenson  walked  into  the  bar,  and  placing 
a  coin  on  the  counter  called  for  drinks.  He  seemed  full  of 
glee,  and  laughed  heartily  as  his  two  companions  told  him 
something  that  was  evidently  humorous.  These  two  men, 
whom  Stevenson  had  most  probably  just  met,  and  who  inter- 
ested him,  were  shellbacks  of  the  roughest  type.  One  was 
positively  comical-looking  with  dissipation,  and  had  a  warty 
grog-nose ;  the  other  seldom  spoke,  but  simply  nodded  his 
head,  as  an  umpire  of  truth,  when  his  companion  told  Steven- 
son the  wonders  of  the  South  Seas.  They  were  telling  him 
about  earlier  black-birding  days,  when  native  men  and  girls 
were  lured  on  to  the  schooners  and  carried  off  to  slavery 
and  worse.  I  cannot  remember  the  things  that  they  told 

76 


R.  L.  S.  AND  SHELLBACKS 

him,  but  I  distinctly  remember  Stevenson's  deep  interest  as 
he  stood  by  them,  with  his  head  nearly  touching  the  low 
roof  of  the  shanty,  and  called  for  more  rum  for  his  com- 
panions, though  he  did  not  drink  himself. 

The  convivial  old  rogues  were  delighted  with  Stevenson's 
generosity,  and  seeing  that  he  listened  eagerly  to  their  yarns 
the  chief  speaker  became  more  garrulous  and  dramatic  than 
ever  as  he  lifted  his  hands  up  to  the  roof  and  said :  "  Sir,  them 
things  that  I  tells  you  is  nothing  to  what  I  could  tell  you." 
Meanwhile  the  novelist  listened  and  looked  out  of  the  grog 
shanty  door,  to  see  that  no  one  was  about  who  would  carry 
the  news  to  Vailima  that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  full  of 
glee,  treating  old  rogues  to  rum,  in  a  grog-house  of  mystery 
and  lurking  crime. 

There  was  a  native  woman  in  the  bar,  whom  the  bar- 
keeper called  Frizzy.  She  had  a  large  mop  of  frizzly  hair 
and  I  suppose  got  her  name  from  that.  She  was  one  of  the 
abandoned  class,  had  four  half-caste  children  and  was  a  half- 
widow,  for  the  father  of  the  children,  a  German  official,  had 
gone  back  to  Berlin. 

Whilst  Stevenson  was  listening  to  his  newly  acquired 
friends  this  woman  approached  him  with  her  ghastly  smile, 
at  the  same  time  offering  for  sale  her  little  plaited  baskets  of 
red  coral.  Stevenson  shook  his  head,  and  as  she  was  still 
persistent  one  of  the  old  shellbacks  pushed  her  away  as 
though  she  was  a  mangy  dog.  Stevenson  looked  at  him 
with  disapproval,  for,  though  he  was  naturally  opposed  to 
women  of  her  class,  he  was  a  champion  for  the  unfortunates 
who  had  been  lured  to  their  mode  of  life  by  white  men.  He 
then  called  the  woman,  who  had  walked  away,  and  asking 
her  the  price  of  the  coral  bought  two  baskets,  though  I  am 
sure  he  did  not  want  them. 

At  that  moment  a  white  man  came  into  the  bar  and  gave  a 
start  at  seeing  Stevenson  standing  there.  It  was  a  "  new 
chum  "  from  Sydney,  and  the  last  man  you  would  have 
expected  to  see  in  that  place.  Looking  up  at  Stevenson,  he 
said :  "  Well,  who  would  have  ever  thought  of  seeing  you 
here  !  "  On  which  the  other  responded  in  a  surprised  voice  : 
"  Who  on  earth  expected  to  see  you  here  !  "  Then  they 

77 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

both  laughed,  and  Stevenson  said  something  about  being  a 
writer  of  books  and  seeking  inspiration  from  natural  sources, 
and  with  intense  amusement  in  his  eyes  he  introduced  the 
two  grimy  reprobates  to  his  friend,  who  shook  them  heartily 
by  the  hand  and  asked  them  what  they  drank. 

At  this  moment  a  Samoan  youth  rushed  in  at  the  bar  door 
very  excited,  and  before  we  could  understand  his  gesticula- 
tions a  native  girl  came  in  behind  him,  snatched  a  large  mug 
from  the  counter  and  gave  the  youth  a  crack  over  the  head  ! 
As  she  made  another  rush  to  repeat  the  attack  Stevenson 
gripped  her  tightly,  and  she  turned  on  him  furiously,  and 
then,  as  quickly,  calmed  down  and  relented.  She  seemed 
to  regret  bitterly  her  attack  on  her  lover,  for  such  he  was, 
though  he  had  been  paying  attention  to  another  maid.  The 
youth  had  a  gash  on  his  forehead,  and  though  it  was  not  a 
deep  cut  the  large  flow  of  blood  made  a  serious-looking  affair 
of  it  all.  Out  of  the  native's  home,  not  far  off,  the  children 
and  women  came  rushing  to  see  what  the  row  was  about, 
for,  unfortunately,  the  jealous  girl  had  screamed  out  when 
she  struck  him.  A  German  patrol  came  running  across,  and 
had  not  Stevenson  expostulated,  and  got  on  the  right  side  of 
him,  the  girl  would  have  been  arrested.  The  whole  affair 
would  have  been  in  The  Samoan  Times,  Stevenson  and  his 
friend  would  have  been  brought  forward  as  witnesses,  and 
though  Stevenson  was  perfectly  innocent  a  lot  of  scandal 
would  have  been  the  result. 

About  eight  miles  from  Apia,  in  one  of  the  coast  villages, 
lived  a  Marquesan  who  had  married  a  Samoan  woman,  whom 
I  knew,  as  she  had  resided  in  Satuafata  village.  One  day, 
when  I  was  walking  along  in  Apia  town,  I  was  suddenly 
greeted  by  her  cheery  laugh,  and  she  invited  me  out  to  their 
home,  an  invitation  which  I  at  once  accepted,  and  so  the 
next  day  I  started  off  alone.  The  weather  was  beautiful  and 
the  sky  cloudless  as  I  passed  under  the  coco-palms,  and 
heard  the  green  doves  cooing  in  the  branches  around  me,  as 
the  katafa  (frigate-bird)  sailed  across  the  sky  bound  seaward. 
Through  the  trees  I  could  see  the  Pacific,  bright  under  the 
hot  sun,  and  in  Apia  harbour  the  hanging  canvas  sails  of  a 

78 


SAMOAN  SCENERY 

few  anchored  schooners.  As  I  walked  along  I  felt  perfectly 
happy  in  the  company  of  my  own  thoughts,  which  were  only 
disturbed  as  I  passed  the  native  homesteads  and  returned 
the  hand- waves  and  salutations  of  "  Kaoha  !  "  from  the 
pretty  native  girls  who  stood  at  the  doors.  Samoan  girls 
were,  as  I  have  told  you,  born  flirts,  and  longed  for  the 
romantic  white  youth  who  would  love  them  and  make  them 
"  Te  boomte  Matan,"  *  as  they  had  read  maids  were  loved  in 
the  South  Sea  novels  which  they  bought  from  the  old  store 
shops  in  Apia.  Far  away  along  the  coast  I  saw  droves  of 
native  children  standing  knee-deep  in  the  shaded  lagoon 
waters  that  joined  the  ocean  just  outside. 

I  passed  a  beautiful  spot  where  I  had  often  stood  at  night, 
when  the  island  was  asleep  and  the  moon  hung  over  the 
water,  and  the  view  appeared  like  some  mighty  painting 
done  in  silver  and  mystic  colours,  framed  by  the  starlit  skies. 
The  palms  perfectly  still,  stretching  to  the  slopes  of  the  Vaea 
Mountains,  stood  all  round,  only  a  wave  gently  breaking 
over  the  far-off  barrier  reefs,  or  the  wavering  smoke  from  the 
moonlit  village  huts,  destroyed  the  impression  of  something 
dream-like  and  unreal  around  me  as  the  wind  came  and 
moaned  in  the  palm-tops,  humming  beautifully,  till  it  seemed 
the  chiming  of  the  starry  worlds  across  the  sky  could  be 
faintly  heard. 

About  three  miles  from  Apia  I  left  the  track  to  cut  across 
a  plantation  towards  the  coast,  when  I  was  suddenly  sur- 
prised to  see  two  white  people  some  distance  off  coming 
toward  the  village  that  I  was  making  for.  Ambushed  in  the 
thick  scrub,  I  peered  up  the  track  to  see  what  they  might  be, 
and  was  again  surprised  to  see  that  it  was  Stevenson  and  his 
wife.  Stevenson  had  a  large  bamboo  rod  in  his  hand,  and 
was  waving  it  about  violently  and  seemed  very  excited. 
Indeed  I  thought  they  were  quarrelling,  but  as  they  ap- 
proached a  group  of  village  homesteads  just  near  the  track 
I  saw  that  he  was  gesticulating,  and  pointing  with  pleasure 
at  the  surrounding  scenery,  which  was  extremely  beautiful 
there.  They  did  not  notice  me,  and  so  I  remained  un- 
observed. Stevenson  was  dressed  in  white  trousers  and  had 
1  Wife  of  a  white  man. 
79 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

an  old  cheesecutter  cap  on.  As  they  approached  the  native 
homes  a  lot  of  children  came  rushing  across  the  clearing  to 
welcome  them.  Mrs  Stevenson  picked  one  of  them  up  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  it,  while  her  husband  in  fun  ran  after  the 
rest  with  his  bamboo  stick,  and  they  all  scampered  away  in 
delight. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  plantation,  wherein  grew  coco-nuts, 
yams  and  pine-apples,  was  the  home  of  my  native  friends.  I 
crossed  the  space  and  passing  between  the  lines  of  white 
native  houses  arrived  at  my  destination.  Mrs  Laota  and 
her  husband  gave  me  an  enthusiastic  welcome,  with  the  usual 
hospitality  of  Samoans,  and  in  a  very  short  space  of  time  I 
sat  down  before  an  appetising  meal  of  poi-poi,  taro,  bread- 
fruit,1 yams  and  boiled  fowl.  There  were  two  families  living 
in  the  homestead,  and  the  native  children  climbed  over  me 
as  I  sat  down  to  eat,  and,  though  I  am  fond  of  children,  at 
that  moment  they  were  a  fearful  pest.  However,  as  in 
England,  I  had  to  put  up  with  it  and  assume  a  happiness 
which  I  was  far  from  feeling,  while  the  delighted  eyes  of  the 
parents  gazed  upon  me  and  on  their  children  ;  but  they  were 
semi-savages  and,  of  course,  it  was  all  excusable. 

After  I  had  finished  my  meal  I  stood  at  the  door,  smoking 
and  talking  to  my  host,  who  seemed  a  very  intelligent 
native.  He  was  a  Marquesan,  and  his  father,  an  old  chief, 
was  also  in  our  company.  It  was  just  at  this  moment  that 
Stevenson,  whose  wife  was  still  visiting  in  the  village,  came 
strolling  along  ;  he  had  evidently  been  to  the  village  before, 
because  my  host  and  his  wife  at  once  called  him  and  he  came 
across  and  greeted  us  all  with  a  cheery  laugh,  accepting  a 
slice  of  pine-apple  from  the  children  and  sitting  down  on  the 
bench  with  us. 

Well,  Koro,  the  old  Marquesan  chief,  had  lived  in  the 
stirring  times  when  his  tribe  had  suffered  from  the  ravages 
of  cannibalism,  and  he  started  off  yarning  almost  directly 
Stevenson  sat  down.  From  his  lips  we  were  told  many 
things  that  seemed  almost  unbelievable.  Koro  even  darkly 
hinted  that  Samoans  up  till  very  recently  had  been  addicted 

1  Bread-fruit  is  baked  in  the  red-hot  ash,  like  baked  potatoes. 
When  it  is  cooked  properly  the  outer  rind  cracks  and  falls  off. 

80 


THE  MARQIJESAN  CANNIBAL 

to  the  awful  appetite,  which  was  probable ;  but,  being  an 
intellectual  race  and  superior  in  every  way  to  the  other  races 
of  the  Pacific,  Samoans  had  not  allowed  the  stain  of  cannibal- 
ism to  rest  on  the  history  of  their  people,  letting  the  memory 
of  it  die  out  with  the  custom.  Stevenson  was  alert  with 
interest  as  the  old  chief  told  us  of  past  cannibalistic  orgies  of 
his  islands,  and,  as  the  old  man  yarned  on  in  pidgin-English, 
kept  saying  "Well  now,  really  me  !  "  for  very  surprise  at 
the  things  we  heard.  One  tale  he  told  us  was  so  blood- 
thirsty and  cruel,  and  the  truth  so  evident  from  the  manner 
in  which  it  was  told,  that  I  must  repeat  it  here. 

It  appeared  that  in  the  Marquesa  Group,  on  Hiva-oa,  at  a 
period  not  distant  from  the  time  that  I  am  telling  you  of, 
there  was  a  ferocious  cannibal  who  was  the  last  survivor  of  a 
tribe  which  had  ravaged  the  surrounding  villages  and  preyed 
on  the  flesh  of  the  people.  In  Koro's  time  this  hated  man- 
eater  lurked  in  the  forest,  and  the  village  was  obliged  to  have 
sentinels  on  watch  each  night.  For  the  terrible  cannibal 
had  a  passion  for  the  flesh  of  their  children,  and  often  by 
night  the  whole  village  was  awakened  by  hearing  the  screams 
of  one  of  their  little  ones,  who  had  been  seized  whilst  asleep, 
and  was  being  carried  off  into  the  forest.  The  method  of  this 
monster  was  to  crawl  on  his  belly  through  the  thickets  and 
watch  the  village  for  hours,  and  once  or  twice  a  girl  had  been 
carried  off  in  broad  daylight  to  be  strangled  and  eaten.  Many 
of  the  things  the  old  chief  told  us  were  too  terrible  to  write 
down  here  ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  did  not  strangle  his 
female  victims  at  once,  but  kept  them  lashed  in  his  hiding- 
place  to  be  killed  and  eaten  at  leisure.  The  people  knew 
this,  because  a  native  girl  had  managed  to  escape,  after 
being  a  prisoner  of  the  monster's  for  several  days.  It  is 
impossible  to  describe  here  Koro's  dramatic  attitude,  and  his 
wonderful  way  of  telling  the  story.  The  listening  children 
in  the  hut  crept  closer  to  us  for  fright,  and  Stevenson  laughed 
almost  hysterically  and  said  "  Good  Lord !  "  as  the  old 
fellow  continued.  "Well,  Marser  Stesson,  one  night  Chief 
Swae,  who  had  just  got  married,  had  a  great  dance,  and  we 
all  be  happy  and  dance  ;  and  that  night  when  the  moon  was 
getting  old  we  all  did  sleep  and  Swae's  bride  did  sleep  beside 
F  81 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

him,  for  the  night  was  very  hot  and  we  did  all  sleep  in  the 
open  under  the  fifis  (palms).  Suddenly  we  were  all  awake 
and  jumping  about  in  the  village,  for  Swae  was  shouting  out 
with  a  great  voice  :  *  The  man-eater  has  stolen  my  wife.'  In 
one  moment  we  had  all  seized  our  war-clubs,  old  cutlasses 
and  muskets  and  rushed  off  into  the  forest,  Swae  the  bride- 
groom leading  the  way.  Presently  we  did  hear  a  far-off 
scream  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  sea.  Swiftly  we 
turned  and  went  toward  the  shore,  and  it  was  then  that  we 
all  looked  through  the  mangroves  and  saw  the  great  man- 
eater  holding  Swae's  bride  in  his  arms  as  though  she  was  a 
caught  bird.  He  was  leaning  against  a  tree  and  had  stopped 
because  she  did  cling  to  one  of  his  legs  ;  he  was  a  mighty  big 
fellow  of  great  strength,  and  his  face  was  very,  very  dark  and 
wrinkled  with  wickedness.  Swae  ran  with  all  his  might 
round  the  shore  and  got  behind  the  cannibal,  and,  creeping  up 
behind  him,  with  one  sweep  of  his  cutlass  cut  his  head  from 
his  shoulders.  It  fell  to  the  forest  floor  and  the  body  still 
stood  upright,  while  the  cannibal's  head  lay  on  the  ground 
with  the  mouth  still  half  laughing  at  the  thought  of  what  he 
would  do  with  Swae's  wife !  When  we  got  up  to  the  bride  she 
lay  as  one  dead,  still  clinging  to  the  man-eater's  leg.  Then 
Swae  called  her  softly  by  her  name  and  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  sprang  into  his  eager  arms.  We  cooked  the  body  of  the 
cannibal  and  gave  it  to  our  grunting  swine.  No  one  of  my 
tribe  would  eat  the  swine  after  that,  so  we  sold  them  to  the 
white  sailors  who  came  in  on  the  big  ships  and  they  were 
much  pleased  that  they  were  so  cheap  1  "  And  saying  this 
the  old  chief  gave  a  chuckle  in  his  wrinkled  throat,  being 
hardly  able  to  disguise  his  inward  delight.  Stevenson, 
too,  saw  the  grim  humour  of  it  and  also  smiled  and  said : 
"  Well  now  !  " 

As  Koro  finished  Mrs  Stevenson  arrived  on  the  scene, 
carrying  a  large  bunch  of  flowers,  and  when  Stevenson  told 
her  that  which  we  had  been  listening  to  she  said  :  "  Ugh,  I 
am  glad  I  wasn't  here  to  listen  ;  you  love  gruesome  things,  I 
know."  Stevenson  grinned  like  a  schoolboy  as  he  started 
mischievously  to  tell  her  some  of  the  most  gruesome  details 
which  we  had  just  heard. 

82 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  his  Friends — Stevenson  as  a  Road- 
maker — Timbo — Stevenson  on  the  Schooner — The  Skipper — 
"Tusitala"  and  the  Natives — Conventionality — A  Visit  to 
King  Malietoa — Stevenson's  Love  of  Adventure — Stevenson  the 
Writer — Genius  in  the  Southern  Seas — Socialism 

I  SAW  Stevenson  several  times  after  that  at  society  balls 
and  concerts  in  Apia,  where  sometimes  he  seemed  full 
of  merriment  and  indeed  the  life  of  the  party,  and 
again  at  other  times  strangely  silent,  revealing  the  man  of 
moods.  I  have  never  heard  that  he  was  fond  of  being  alone, 
but  I  can  vouch  for  it  that  he  was  as  often  alone  in  his 
wanderings  over  the  islands  as  he  was  with  friends  ;  indeed 
I  think  I  saw  him  more  often  alone  than  otherwise.  I  met 
Mr  Strong  twice,  I  think,  when  he  was  with  Stevenson. 
Mr  Moore  too,  who  wrote  With  Stevenson  in  Samoa,  was  a 
pleasant  man,  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  he  were  as 
familiar  as  brothers. 

Almost  the  last  time  I  saw  Stevenson  was  at  the  Tivoli  in 
Apia  ;  he  was  with  Mr  Moore  and  several  other  men  whom  I 
cannot  recall.  They  were  all  taking  refreshments  and  talk- 
ing. Stevenson  was  flushed  a  bit,  his  eyes  were  very  bright, 
and  with  his  hat  off,  revealing  a  lofty,  pale  brow,  he  looked 
unlike  the  ordinary  run  of  men.  He  was  in  an  excellent 
mood,  and  Mr  Moore  and  another  member  of  the  party  were 
so  intensely  amused  at  what  he  was  saying  that  they  almost 
upset  their  glasses  and  spluttered  as  they  laughed ;  which 
gave  Stevenson  very  obviously  great  pleasure,  for  he  was 
as  fond  of  a  joke  as  any  of  them. 

On  that  special  occasion  I  was  in  the  company  of  the  chief 
mate  of  a  large  schooner  which  was  leaving  Apia  the  next 
day  for  Honolulu.  Stevenson,  or  one  of  the  party,  called  us 
across  and  offered  us  drinks  and  cigars.  Soon  after  my  com- 
panion, who  had  to  get  on  board  his  ship,  left  and  I  went  with 

83 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

him ;  and  as  we  got  outside  we  still  heard  the  jovial 
exclamations  of  Stevenson  and  his  friends  as  they  yarned 
on,  their  voices  fading  behind  us  as  we  walked  away  into 
the  moonlight  and  shadows  of  the  coco-palms  many  years 
ago. 

Stevenson  would  often  tackle  rough  work,  such  as  tree- 
chopping  and  digging  ;  and  was  often  to  be  seen  perspiring 
and  covered  with  grime  as  he  helped  the  natives  to  make 
tracks  across  the  rough  jungle  and  forest  land  that  sur- 
rounded Vailima.  Bare-footed,  dressed  in  old  clothes  and 
a  seaman's  cast-off  cap,  he  looked  like  some  vagabond  dust- 
man. His  manner  to  the  natives  who  worked  for  him  was 
jovial  enough ;  he  would  shout :  "  Go  it,  Sambo,  that's  right, 
te  rom  and  te  pakea 1  if  you  work  hard  "  ;  and  then  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eyes  he'd  stand  and  watch  them  lugging  the 
wheelbarrows  up  the  slope  as  they  jabbered  like  school- 
children and  worked  their  hardest.  Several  of  Stevenson's 
friends  also  worked  with  him  :  one  of  them  would  be  cutting 
the  trees  down  as  the  novelist  smoked,  and  jocularly  criti- 
cising him,  telling  him  to  "  keep  moving  and  not  be  such  a 
loafer."  Mrs  Stevenson  arrived  on  the  scene  of  hard  work 
once  and  chided  him  for  exerting  himself.  "  Don't  do  that, 
dear,  or  you  will  be  ill  again,"  she  would  say ;  and  the  novelist 
would  look  up  and  then  work  harder  than  ever. 

He  was  to  be  found  in  all  the  out-of-the-way  places  and 
would  go  miles  alone,  usually  on  foot ;  though  he  had  an  old 
horse  or  ass,  I  forget  which,  he  seldom  rode  it. 

One  day  I  was  walking  along  near  the  coast  when  a  little 
native  boy  of  about  six  years  of  age,  came  limping  out  of  the 
jungle  scrub  just  by  the  track.  I  picked  the  little  fellow  up 
and  discovered  he  had  trodden  on  some  glass,  and  had  a  deep 
gash  in  his  foot.  As  I  was  carrying  him  down  to  the  shore 
to  wash  his  wound,  Stevenson  and  a  boy  came  strolling  by. 
Stevenson,  who  was  always  very  kind  to  children,  examined 
the  wound,  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief  and  bound  the 
foot  up,  after  we  had  well  bathed  it :  his  manner  to  the  little 
outcast  was  one  of  extreme  tenderness. 

I  was  living  with  two  kindly  disposed  old  natives  at  that 
1  Meaning  rum,  refreshments  and  tobacco. 


TIMBO  :   A  TYPICAL  SAMOAN  CHILD 

time,  so  I  picked  the  child  up  and  carried  him  home.  We 
found  out  the  next  day  that  the  poor  little  fellow's  parents 
had  been  drowned  by  the  upsetting  of  a  canoe  in  a  typhoon  off 
Apia  harbour.  He  was  very  thin  and  looked  ill,  so  I  gave  my 
hosts  some  money  and  told  them  to  feed  him  up,  which  they 
did.  I  became  very  fond  of  him  ;  he  had  thick  curls  all  over 
his  head,  and  his  cheery  little  brown  face  was  lit  up  by  a  pair 
of  beautiful  brown  eyes.  He  slept  near  me,  and  every 
morning  he  would  jump  off  his  bed-mat  and  caper  about  like 
a  puppy  and  would  insist  in  helping  me  put  my  boots  on. 
He  heard  me  play  the  violin  and  was  deeply  interested  in  it. 
I  was  always  catching  him  looking  at  my  violin,  and  each 
time  he  looked  up  at  me  artfully,  as  much  as  to  say  :  "  I  must 
not  touch  your  wonderful  music.  Oh  no,  I'm  not  that  kind 
of  Samoan  baby  !  " 

I  only  chided  him  once,  when  I  caught  the  little  dark 
tinker  unscrewing  all  my  violin  pegs.  He  gave  a  terrified 
shriek  as  I  ran  after  him,  and  was  off  like  a  frightened  rabbit. 
When  I  at  length  caught  him,  and  regained  my  property,  he 
looked  up  at  me  with  pleading  eyes,  gave  a  baby-like  cry, 
and  in  musical,  infantile  Samoan  phrases  asked  to  be  for- 
given. So  I  at  once  placed  him  on  my  shoulder  and 
gave  him  a  ride  to  his  heart's  delight;  and  after  that  he 
stood  guard  over  my  violin,  and  came  rushing  up  to  me  if 
even  the  dog  went  near  it.  I  let  him  sleep  with  me  some- 
times, and  he  placed  his  arms  about  my  neck  as  though  I 
were  some  sweet-bosomed  mother ;  and  so  in  that  way  fell 
asleep  the  little  brown  savage  in  the  arms  of  Western 
civilisation. 

Of  course  this  is  not  telling  you  much  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  but  to  me,  and  in  my  memory  of  it  all,  it's  just 
as  important,  perhaps  even  more  so.  The  old  Samoan  wife 
became  very  fond  of  Timbo,  as  I  called  him,  and  he  became 
quite  plump.  So  I  secured  a  good  home  for  him  for  life,  or 
till  he  grew  up,  and  therefore  you  will  see  that  I  have  also 
done  good  mission  work  in  the  South  Seas  ! 

I  heard  when  I  came  home  afterwards  that  Stevenson  had 
seen  Timbo  and  given  him  some  presents,  including  a  box  of 
tin  German  soldiers.  Timbo  gave  me  half  of  them.  I  was 

85 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

obliged  to  accept  them  to  please  him.  If  he's  alive  still  he 
must  be  a  fine  young  fellow,  for  he  was  affectionate  and 
plucky  even  as  a  tiny  child.  I  remember  how  I  once  took 
him  for  a  canoe  ride,  and  his  delight  as  I  rocked  the  small 
craft  in  the  shallow  water  till  he  fell  overside,  for  he  could 
swim  like  a  fish.  Once  I  took  him  out  in  Apia  harbour  and 
we  went  aboard  a  schooner  that  had  encountered  a  typhoon  ; 
she  was  being  overhauled,  for  her  deck  was  almost  washed 
clean,  the  rigging  was  a  mass  of  tangle  and  the  galley  had 
been  washed  away.  The  skipper  was  a  pleasant  enough 
man ;  he  hailed  from  San  Francisco  and  had  a  voice  that 
could  compete  with  the  wildest  gale's  thunder,  but  never- 
theless his  heart  was  in  the  right  place  when  whisky  was 
scarce.  I  had  met  him  ashore  and,  hearing  that  I  came  from 
Sydney,  and  had  lived  near  his  home  in  San  Francisco,  he 
got  into  conversation  with  me  and  hinted  that  there  was  a 
chance  of  a  berth  aboard  for  me,  if  I  felt  inclined  to  take  it. 

While  I  was  on  this  schooner  one  afternoon  suddenly 
Stevenson  and  his  wife  came  on  board ;  they  had  been 
brought  out  in  one  of  the  small  native  canoes  that  were 
always  hovering  by  the  beach,  awaiting  passengers  wanting 
to  visit  the  anchored  crafts  in  the  harbour.  The  novelist 
was  in  high  spirits  and  helped  Mrs  Stevenson  up  the  rope 
ladder  in  great  mirth.  Mrs  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  an 
excellent  sailor  and  made  no  fuss  about  the  ascent,  as  she 
clambered  up  and  leapt  on  the  deck  with  a  bounce  ! 

The  skipper  knew  them  well  and  was  very  polite  to  them. 
A  young  American  or  Australian  lady,  I  forget  which,  was 
also  visiting  on  board,  and  the  skipper  introduced  her  to 
Mr  and  Mrs  Stevenson.  She  devoted  all  her  attention  to 
the  novelist,  and  as  they  were  having  lunch  together  in  the 
schooner's  cuddy  Stevenson's  misery,  as  she  plied  him  with 
questions  and  reiterated  her  flattering  approval  of  his  books, 
was  very  evident.  4 '  Oh,  I  think  your  books  most  delightful ; 
how  do  you  think  of  such  things  ?  Was  it  really  true  about 
that  rich  uncle  and  the  derelict  piano  ?  Have  you  read 
Lady  Audle\fs  Secret*!"  So  she  rattled  on.  Stevenson 
looked  appealingly  at  his  wife,  in  an  attempt  to  get  her  to 
engage  the  girl's  attention,  but  still  she  persisted  in  reiterating 

66 


R.  L.  S.  AND  HIS  WIFE  ON  A  NIGHT  OUT 

those  things  which  she  thought  were  music  to  the  novelist's 
ears.  Suddenly  Stevenson  looked  up,  and  with  his  fine  eyes 
alive  with  satire  said  something  to  the  effect  that  "  he  did 
not  write  books  for  ladies  to  read,"  punctuating  the  remark 
with  a  look  that  made  the  garrulous  visitor  immediately 
retire  into  her  shell. 

The  convivial  equilibrium  was  not  restored  till  the  skipper 
sat  down  at  the  cuddy's  harmonium  and,  with  his  feet 
pedalling  away  at  full  speed,  started  to  sing  with  his 
thunderous  voice : 

1£  Fifteen  men  on  a  dead  man's  chest, 
Yo  !  Ho  !  Ho  !  for  a  bottle  of  rum  !  " 

The  young  lady  who  had  so  annoyed  Stevenson  joined  in, 
and  revealed  the  fact  that  her  voice  as  a  musical  medium 
was  a  deal  more  pleasant  than  when  it  tried  to  flatter  a 
writer  of  books.  Stevenson  seemed  delighted  to  find  such 
an  opportunity  insidiously  to  apologise  for  his  previous 
irritability,  and  so  at  once  started  to  applaud  the  lady's 
singing  in  an  almost  exaggerated  fashion. 

A  bottle  of  whisky  was  opened,  and  the  skipper  drank  half- 
a-tumblerful,  just  to  sample  it  and  see  if  he  had  really  opened 
the  special  brand  which  he  had  been  recommending  to  his 
visitors.  Finding  there  was  no  mistake,  with  all  the 
liberality  of  a  sailor,  he  allotted  to  each  a  due  portion ; 
whereby  the  dimly  lit  cabin  festival  was  immensely  enhanced. 
Stevenson's  mirth  was  frequently  stimulated  by  the  drunken 
mate,  who  repeatedly  poked  his  head  into  the  cuddy  door 
and,  with  a  half-apologetic  leer  at  the  ladies,  looked  at  the 
skipper  and  said :  "  All's  well,  sir.  I'm  going  ashore." 
The  skipper,  who  was  half-seas-over  himself,  looked  at  him 
contemptuously  and  said :  u  Clear  out  of  it."  "  Ay,  ay, 
sir,"  responded  the  mate,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  back 
again,  and  out  came  the  same  information,  "  All's  well,  sir. 
I'm  off  ashore." 

Suddenly  the  skipper  arose  and  went  on  deck,  and  a  loud 
argument  commenced,  interspersed  with  those  maritime 
epithets  which  enforce  sea  law  and  are  not  to  be  found  in 
navigation  books.  After  a  brief  interval  of  silence  the 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

skipper  could  be  heard  shouting  out  oaths  as  he  shook  his 
fist  to  the  mate,  who  was  being  rowed  away  ashore  by  the 
natives  who  always  haunted  the  gangways  of  anchored 
ships. 

At  sunset  the  party  left  the  schooner,  and  the  skipper 
went  with  them,  and  we  heard  their  laughter  fading  away 
over  the  darkening  waters  as  the  singing  natives  paddled 
them  away  to  Apia's  island  town. 

That  same  night  I  also  went  ashore  with  the  sailors. 
Timbo  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  ship's  boat ;  he  had  been 
entertained  by  the  hands  in  the  forecastle.  As  soon  as  I 
arrived  on  the  beach  I  made  my  way  to  my  friendly  natives' 
home,  for  the  hour  was  late  and  I  wanted  to  get  Timbo  off 
to  bed.  I  was  deep  in  thought,  and  as  he  toddled  beside  me 
I  held  his  hand.  Suddenly  I  was  startled  by  hearing  the 
child  make  throaty  gurgles  as  though  he  wanted  to  be  sick, 
his  little  brown  face  wrinkling  up  as  he  made  fearful  grimaces. 
"  What's  the  matter,  Timbo  ?  "  I  said,  somewhat  alarmed, 
and  for  answer  he  looked  up  at  me  helplessly  and  dropped 
several  objects  in  the  scrub.  I  picked  them  up  and  found 
that  he  had  been  sucking  away  a't  a  large,  rank  meerschaum 
pipe,  which  I  at  once  recognised  as  belonging  to  the  boat- 
swain Of  the  schooner  which  we  had  just  left.  The  boy  had 
also  stolen  a  purse  with  a  few  coppers  in  it  and  a  small 
leather  belt  purse  full  of  brass  buttons.  I  felt  pretty  wild 
with  the  little  fellow  at  first,  because  it  meant  that  I  had  to 
go  back  to  the  schooner  and  return  the  things. 

Taking  Timbo  up,  I  sat  on  a  log  and  laid  him  across  my 
knees,  ready  to  give  him  a  good  spanking,  for  it  was  not  his 
first  misdemeanour ;  indeed,  he  had  done  many  things 
which  I  have  left  untold.  As  I  laid  him  face  downwards,  so 
that  I  might  administer  chastisement,  he  twisted  his  little 
curly  head  round  and  looked  appealingly  up  at  me  with  his 
big  brown  eyes :  as  if  to  say :  "  Oh,  noble  white  man  from  the 
far-off  moral  integrity  of  Western  civilisation,  may  I  beg  of 
you  to  overlook  the  sad  indiscretion  of  a  Samoan  child  ?  " 
That  part  whereon  I  was  about  to  administer  justice  looked 
so  small  and  helpless  that  I  did  that  which  I  should  have 
Jiked  to  have  been  done  to  me  in  my  earlier  years,  for  I 

88 


R.  L.  S.  AS  I  REMEMBER  HIM 

relented  and  stood  Timbo  on  his  feet.  Then  I  said  :  "  Timbo, 
for  that  which  you  have  done  you  will  be  arrested  and  taken 
to  Mulinuu  Jail,  where  the  wicked  chiefs  are  imprisoned." 
Hearing  this,  he  clung  to  me  and  sobbed,  and  large  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks  and  splashed  on  to  his  small  mahogany- 
coloured  toes.  So  I  said  :  "  Timbo,  I  forgive  you."  For  I 
knew,  deep  down  in  my  heart,  that,  though  I  was  white,  I 
had  in  my  childish  days  committed  several  little  indiscre- 
tions very  similar  to  Timbo's.  He  was  only  a  tiny  fellow, 
and  I  thought  of  English  babies  who  at  his  age  were  still  in 
arms  and  busy  sucking  dummies ;  and  I  knew  that  civilisa- 
tion itself  was  a  monstrous  baby,  devoid  of  wit,  sucking 
away  at  the  dry,  windy  dummy  and  soothing  itself  with  the 
thought  that  it  was  swallowing  kindly  feeding  milk.  As  I 
thought  I  looked  at  Timbo,  and  the  expression  of  gratitude 
on  his  little  half- wild  face,  as  he  stood  on  his  head  and  waved 
his  feet  to  the  skies,  seemed  to  applaud  my  mild  philosophy. 

In  all  that  I  recall  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson — his  manner 
to  strangers,  his  ever-ready  attention  to  those  who  would 
earnestly  tell  him  something,  his  kindness  to  the  natives  and 
to  all  who  were  in  a  conventional  sense  beneath  him — was 
revealed  a  large  mind  with  a  sympathetic,  human  outlook. 

Often  little  actions,  something  done  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  told  of  simplicity  and  tenderness  and  the  greatness 
which  reveals  a  spirit  that  sees  the  link  of  fellowship  between 
men,  no  matter  what  their  caste  or  position  in  human  affairs. 

At  times  he  might  have  appeared  theatrical  to  those 
around  him ;  but  it  was  the  expression  of  an  intellectual, 
dramatic  instinct,  not  for  the  stage,  but  for  the  drama  played 
by  men  of  this  world,  as  though  he  were  ever  gazing  critically 
on  mortals  before  the  limelight  of  existence  and  saying,  half 
to  himself:  "  There  you  are  !  I  told  you  so.  What  would 
you  say  to  all  that  you've  just  heard  if  you  read  it  in  a  book  ? 
You  wouldn't  believe  it,  I'll  be  bound." 

His  manner  to  Mrs  Stevenson  revealed  an  affectionate, 
confiding  nature  that  loved  attention.  I  should  think  it  was 
the  affection  of  a  boy's  heart,  with  the  strong  strain  of  a 
discerning  man  who  knew  the  nature  of  women.  He  would 
always  treat  native  women  with  the  same  deference  that  he 

89 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

showed  to  the  women  of  his  own  race ;  a  deference  always 
delicately  courteous,  excepting  on  those  occasions  when 
women  might  court  his  criticism  by  criticising  him,  or  by 
casting  aside  the  delicate  armour  of  their  sex  and  assuming 
man's  role. 

His  kindness  and  the  trouble  he  took  on  behalf  of  the 
Samoans  is  well  known,  and  the  natives  earnestly  expressed 
their  gratitude  by  listening  to  and  following  the  advice  of 
"  Tusitala,"  as  they  called  him,  and  when  he  died  they  loudly 
bewailed  his  death.  The  poet-author's  coffin  was  borne  on 
the  strong  shoulders  of  Samoan  chiefs,  and  the  sound  of  their 
wailing,  as  they  carried  the  coffin  onwards  up  the  slopes,  with 
slow  footsteps,  to  the  grave  on  Vaea's  sea-girt  height,  was 
his  funeral  chant. 

I  saw  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  many  places  and  in  many 
moods,  and  looking  back,  as  I  now  can,  the  perspective  clearly 
shows  me  that  he  was  a  religious  man  in  the  true  sense  of 
that  term.  In  no  wise  bigoted,  he  often  fell  into  the  ranks  of 
Christianity  and  beat  time,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  as  though 
he  wished  to  set  an  example  to  those  around  him,  in  his  know- 
ledge that  the  example  was  better  than  his  own  half-sad, 
hopeful  smile.  At  times,  too,  he  would  fall  out  of  the  ranks 
and  become  a  harum-scarum  renegade,  and  at  such  moments 
he  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of  the  existence  of  the  barrier-lines 
that  men,  before  the  public,  draw  between  the  jovial  rogue 
and  the  respectable  citizen.  "  Well,  captain,  how  goes  it  ? 
Got  an  eye-opener  aboard  ?  "  he  would  say  as  he  jumped 
aboard  the  schooner's  deck  ;  and  then  he  would  turn  to  the 
sailor  who  might  be  cleaning  brass  close  by  and  offer  him  a 
cigarette,  or  walk  into  the  forecastle  and  chum  with  the  crew, 
or  look  over  the  ship's  side  and  shy  a  copper  to  the  swimming 
natives  who  haunted  the  bay,  with  the  sea-birds,  looking  for  a 
living.  Such  was  Stevenson's  manner  in  the  isles  of  Samoa, 
where,  notwithstanding  the  wildness  and  the  proximity  to 
primitive  life,  many  of  the  emigrant  citizens  still  did  things, 
or  did  not  do  things,  because  of  the  standard  set  by  a  majority. 

It  does  not  matter  where  you  go,  or  how  remote  from 
civilisation  your  dwelling-place  may  be,  you  are  sure  to  have 

90 


MRS  STEVENSON 

some  living  illustration  before  you  to  tell  you  that  the  chains 
of  conventionality  are  forged  from  the  natures  of  men.  I 
believe  that  if  we  could  come  back  to  this  world  a  myriad 
years  hence,  when  the  sun  has  cooled  down  to  a  ghostly 
moon,  when  the  seas  are  frozen  and  swinging  to  the  tideless 
desolation  that  precedes  the  final  crashing  of  the  planetary 
system,  and  the  human  race  has  dwindled  to  a  camp  of 
twelve  shivering  mortals  wrapped  in  bearskins,  we  should  find 
them  sitting  over  the  last  log  fire  without  wood,  with  gloomy 
faces,  anxiously  awaiting  Monday — because  it  is  Sunday  ! 

Mrs  Stevenson  was  as  much  a  Bohemian  as  her  husband. 
She  accompanied  him  on  his  short  visits  to  Apia  town,  and 
on  those  occasions  she  was  generally  to  be  seen  hurriedly 
rushing  back  to  get,  or  inquire  for,  that  which  had  been  left 
behind.  The  novelist  walked  ahead  and,  as  he  went  on 
dreaming,  forgot  that  his  wife  was  out  with  him  till  the 
domestic  voice  came  again.  Mrs  Stevenson  was  very  pleasant 
to  talk  to ;  she  invited  me  to  Vailima,  but  I  was  not  able 
to  go.  Indeed,  I  was  only  a  lad  and,  not  being  a  lady's  man, 
would  have  run  twenty  miles  to  escape  Vailima  fashion. 

I  recall  many  men  who  were  acquaintances  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson,  and  whom  I  have  never  heard  of  since.  I 
remember  one  old  man  in  particular  whom  Stevenson  was 
always  glad  to  meet.  Indeed,  the  novelist's  face  lit  up 
directly  he  saw  him.  His  name  was  Callard,  and  he  was  a 
bit  of  a  scallawag,  was  a  character  and  had  plenty  of  spare 
cash.  He  was  never  silent,  but  talked  all  day  long  and 
nearly  all  night,  and  always  had  some  new  trouble  to  relate. 
I  slept  in  his  room  one  night  with  two  other  men  and  he  kept 
on  and  on  about  some  friend  who  had  swindled  him  out  of 
five  dollars  in  San  Francisco,  for  that  was  his  native  place. 
"  Yes,  he  did  me,  by  heaven  he  did  "  ;  and  saying  this  he 
would  start  reckoning  up  on  a  bit  of  paper,  and  sit  on  the 
side  of  the  bed  swearing  till  my  friend  and  I  said  :  "  If  you 
won't  worry  any  more  about  it  we'll  give  you  the  five  dollars." 
About  a  week  after  he  took  a  passage  on  the  'Frisco  mail- 
boat.  I  really  believe  that  he  hurried  home  and  spent  five 
hundred  dollars  to  ease  his  mind  about  that  five  dollars,  and 
would  have  spent  a  thousand  dollars  sooner  than  be  done.  I 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

am  rather  like  that  myself,  but  I  do  not  let  such  losses  prey 
on  my  mind,  for  if  I  did,  and  tried  to  get  even  with  the 
culprit,  I  should  be  incessantly  travelling  off  somewhere  or 
other. 

Well,  Stevenson  often  met  Callard,  and  the  old  chap  treated 
him  as  though  he  was  a  boy,  told  the  novelist  jokes,  spun 
yarns  and  repeatedly  nudged  him  in  the  ribs  ;  and  the  two 
would  finally  end  up  by  retiring  to  the  bar  and  standing  each 
other  treat. 

Callard's  great  ambition  at  that  time  was  to  see  King 
Malietoa  Laupepa  at  Mulinuu.  I  went  off  with  him,  and  with 
the  assistance  of  some  Malietoans  got  him  an  introduction 
at  the  royal  court.  Callard  behaved  with  great  propriety, 
indeed,  bowed  to  almost  all  the  native  servants  of  the^court 
retinue  !  I  played  the  violin  to  the  King,  who  was  a  most 
agreeable  gentleman,  and  carried  himself  with  a  deal  more 
importance  than  Mataafa  did.  Callard  spoke  day  and  night 
of  the  King's  handshake,  and  chuckled  in  his  very  sleep  at 
the  thought  of  what  his  friends  in  America  would  think  when 
they  heard  of  Callard  and  the  King  of  Samoa  together. 
He  went  especially  to  Vailima  to  tell  Stevenson  about 
King  Malietoa,  and  kept  the  novelist  amused  the  whole 
evening. 

Callard's  eyebrows  were  about  half-an-inch  long  and  they 
stuck  straight  out,  and  as  he  spoke  his  eyelids  kept  closing 
as  though  he  was  in  deep  thought ;  and  what  with  that  and 
his  high,  bald  head,  he  was  a  cheerful-looking  man.  He 
always  drank  whisky,  and  Stevenson  tucked  him  up  to  sleep 
on  his  couch  at  Vailima  when  he  was  too  full  of  it  to  walk 
back  to  his  lodgings  !  I  am  quite  sure  if  Stevenson  had  lived 
the  world  would  have  heard  of  Callard. 

Stevenson  had  a  sneaking  regard  for  vagabonds,  and  his 
eyes  twinkled  with  delight  in  their  company.  He  was  very 
credulous  and  believed  a  deal  that  he  heard.  I  think  he 
would  have  gone  off  exploring  for  some  new  country,  or  a 
treasure  island,  in  five  minutes,  if  he  had  been  encouraged 
by  some  of  the  fearless  adventurers  whom  he  mixed  with 
through  his  love  of  vagabondage  and  adventure.  The 
questions  he  used  to  ask  men  of  the  seafaring  class  revealed 

92 


STEVENSON  THE  TONE  POET 

how  implicitly  he  believed  that  which  they  were  telling  him, 
yet  at  other  times  he  seemed  alert  with  suspicion  and  in  a 
mood  to  disbelieve  actual  facts. 

Though  I  heard  Stevenson  make  several  attempts  to  play 
the  violin,  and  also  heard  him  pedalling  at  the  harmonium,  I 
cannot  recall  that  he  accomplished  anything  that  struck  me 
as  showing  musical  talent — that  is,  talent  revealing  a  quick 
ear  to  distinguish  the  scales  and  intervals  of  mechanical 
music.  Indeed  the  pedals  made  more  noise  and  sounded 
more  rhythmical  than  the  tune  he  played ;  and  he  looked 
like  some  careworn  priest  toiling  away  on  the  treadmill  of 
penance  to  save  his  soul.  But  still  I  can  say  that  Stevenson 
had  a  gift  that  was  something  much  greater  than  an  ear  for 
light  melody.  He  was  a  great  tone  poet  I  His  mind  was  a 
shell  that  caught  echoes  from  the  vastness  of  creation,  and 
the  murmurs  of  humanity  in  all  its  joy,  passion  and  sorrow. 
Otherwise  he  could  never  have  even  noticed,  let  alone 
described  as  he  did,  for  not  in  all  literature  will  you  find 
another  who  describes  sound  so  perfectly  at  one  stroke  as 
Stevenson  did.  You  can  hear  Nature's  moods,  in  all  her  wild 
grandeur  of  seas  and  the  winds  in  the  mountain  forests,  as 
you  read  his  books.  The  seas  beating  over  the  barrier  reefs, 
the  vast  silence  of  the  tropical  night,  the  starlit  coco-palms 
and  the  coughing  derelict  beachcomber  sleeping  beneath 
them,  become  realities  that  haunt  your  mind,  because  they 
are  made  and  played  by  a  great  musician  who  was  an  artist 
in  Nature's  great  orchestra. 

I  think  if  Stevenson  had  been  able  to  cast  aside  all  thought 
of  the  critical  inspection  of  lovers  of  polite  literature,  and  the 
mechanical  niceties  of  phrase  and  thought,  and  had  written 
his  reminiscences  down  in  a  book,  the  characters  therein 
would  have  walked,  talked  and  laughed  with  cinema  realism. 
Down  in  the  magical  world  of  words,  before  the  mind's  eye 
and  ear,  we  should  have  seen  the  vast  tropical  Pacific,  and  the 
stars  over  it  reflected  in  the  lagoons  of  the  far-scattered  isles 
clad  with  coco-palms  as  if  painted  by  the  magical  silver  oils 
of  moonlight.  We  should  have  heard  the  cry  of  the  traders 
and  seen  the  beachcombers'  ragged  clothes  fluttering  by 
tossing  waters,  and  paddled  canoes  filled  with  the  swarthy 

93 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

faces  of  wild  men,  on  the  waves  that  were  breaking  over 
the  shores  of  his  wonderful  pages. 

But,  unfortunately,  it  was  not  to  be,  because  of  the  great 
truth  that  we  cannot  do  differently  from  that  which  we  do. 
We  are  born  in  the  chains  of  grim  conventionality  that 
become  inevitably  a  part  of  us.  Indeed  he  who  professes  to 
be  utterly  free  from  it,  and  to  have  no  regard  for  it  in  his 
work,  has  his  published  book  as  strong  evidence  against  his 
sincerity. 

I've  met  far  greater  geniuses  than  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
in  the  Southern  Seas — geniuses  so  intense  with  pathos,  wit, 
insight  and  heroic  courage  that  though  they  had  never  even 
read  a  book,  or  learnt  to  write,  their  minds  were  gold  mines 
of  truth  and  experience  and  all  that  men  have  ever  attempted 
to  tell  in  polite  phrase.  Could  they,  by  some  magical  means, 
have  turned  a  handle  and  so  written  down  in  a  book  their 
reminiscences,  and  their  thoughts  on  human  affairs,  modern 
literature  would  not  have  to  bewail  the  loss  of  its  Golden 
Age,  but  would  be  absorbed  with  delight,  filled  with  ecstatic 
charm  over  the  pathos  and  the  wonderful  touches  of  truth, 
in  what  would  be  the  great  classic,  the  new  Odyssey  of  modern 
times. 

But  to  return  to  Stevenson.  I  once  heard  him  arguing 
violently  on  board  a  ship,  when  he  was  at  dinner  in  the 
saloon.  At  the  time  I  was  busily  cleaning  the  brass  door 
handle.  It  grieves  me  to  have  to  confess  to  this  humble 
occupation  while  I  was  seeking  fame  and  fortune  in  far 
countries,  but  it  was  the  execution  of  this  little  detail  of  one 
of  my  many  professions  that  gave  me  the  opportunity  of 
hearing  the  celebrated  author's  opinion  on  Socialism. 

One  of  the  diners,  who  sat  opposite  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son, was  a  big  red-faced  man,  weighing  about  sixteen  stone, 
a  quantity  of  heavy  jewellery  which  adorned  his  clothing 
being  included.  He  breathed  violently  as  he  ate  and  kept 
insisting  on  the  wonderful  virtues  of  Socialism.  Stevenson 
combated  with  him  in  fine  style,  winning  every  point.  All 
I  can  remember  of  the  conversation  was  that  the  author  said  : 
"  Socialism  is  based  on  ideas  of  equality  and  the  freedom  of 
the  individual ;  yet  its  principal  aim  in  practice  would  be  to 

94 


STEVENSON  AND  SOCIALISM 

destroy  individuality  and  freedom,  and  the  equality  would 
be  a  system  producing  nothing  else  but  a  nation  of  slaves." 

I  think  Stevenson  was  right,  for  I  have  noticed  that 
socialists  are  not  continually  busy  in  giving  away  anything. 
Indeed,  socialists  have  so  developed  the  instinct  of  com- 
mercial grab  that  they  can  always  perceive,  "  by  the  cut  of 
your  jib  "  (a  socialistic  phrase),  how  much  you  are  worth  and 
whether  you  would  part  with  it  without  the  use  of  muscular 
force.  I  am  not  well  read  in  the  ethics  of  Socialism,  because 
I  cannot  waste  my  time.  If  a  burglar  broke  into  my  house, 
and  I  caught  him  stealing  my  goods  as  his  fair  share,  I 
should  not  want  to  read  his  private  correspondence  and 
hear  his  views  on  human  affairs,  or  wish  to  know  if  he 
had  a  clean  shirt  on  ere  I  threw  him  out  of  the  window  or 
fetched  the  police.  Socialists  do  not  like  sharing  their 
property  with  others  any  more  than  I  do. 

I  have  striven  to  tell  in  the  brief  foregoing  details  my 
impressions  and  experiences  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  I 
hope  they  may  be  interesting.  In  the  books  that  deal  with 
his  life  in  the  South  Seas  it  is  little  short  of  marvellous  how 
tamely  his  life  there  is  painted,  especially  when  one  thinks 
that  his  island  home  was  overrun  by  semi-civilised  natives 
and  a  white  population  of  the  most  mixed  and  adventurous 
people  the  world  could  well  place  together ;  and  certainly 
Stevenson  was  not  the  kind  of  man  to  travel  to  the  South 
Seas  and  seek  no  other  excitement  beyond  an  afternoon  walk 
or  a  fashionable  dance  in  an  Apia  ballroom. 

It  was  somewhere  about  the  period  which  I  am  dealing 
with  that  a  discussion  was  going  on  concerning  Father 
Damien,  the  celebrated  Catholic  priest  who  had  sacrificed 
his  life  for  the  sake  of  the  lepers  at  the  dread  lazaretto  on  the 
Isle  of  Molokai.  In  my  first  book  of  reminiscences  in  the 
South  Seas  I  touched  briefly  on  the  few  incidents  which  I 
heard  from  a  native  friend  of  mine,  Raeltoa  the  Samoan. 
And  before  I  proceed  with  my  later  reminiscences  of  Samoa 
and  elsewhere  I  will  tell  you  all  I  heard  about  Father  Damien 
whilst  I  was  in  Honolulu. 


95 


CHAPTER  IX 

Honolulu — King  Lunalilo — Chinese  Leprosy — Kooma's  Reminis- 
cences of  Father  Damien — Molokai — The  Leper-Hunters — 
Father  Damien  at  Molokai — Robert  Stevenson's  Open  Letter  to 
Dr  C.  M.  Hyde 

AFTER  Samoa  I  think  the  Sandwich  Isles  are  the  most 
attractive  islands  in  the  Pacific.  They  are  moun- 
tainous and  the  summits  of  Hawaii — pronounced 
Ha-wy-ee — rise  to  fourteen  or  fifteen  thousand  feet.  All  the 
islands  of  the  group  are  volcanic,  and  rich  both  in  live  and 
extinct  craters.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  some  day  the 
bowels  of  the  Sandwich  Group  suddenly  exploded  and  blew 
the  isles  to  smithereens  ! 

When,  from  the  sea,  you  sight  the  coast,  its  promontories 
covered  with  coco-palms  and  gorgeous  tropical  trees,  waving 
over  slopes  that  lead  down  to  lazy,  shore-curling  waves,  you 
think  of  the  Biblical  Garden  of  Paradise.  Native  hut  homes, 
conical-shaped,  with  tiny  verandahs,  peep  out  of  the  bamboo 
and  clumps  of  bananas  beneath  mighty  bread-fruit  trees. 

I  stayed  several  weeks  in  the  Sandwich  Group.  The 
natives  are  mirthful  and  well  dressed,  far  in  advance 
of  the  Marquesan  and  Solomon  islanders.  They  are  all 
Christians,  but  decidedly  immoral  according  to  European 
codes.  Honolulu  is  a  well-shaded  city,  with  the  spires  of 
advanced  civilisation  rising.  Missionaries  are  there  in 
plenty,  and  possibly  they  feel  thankful  that  barbarian  ideas 
of  virtue  have  given  them  a  profession  on  islands  of  tropical 
beauty,  whereon  they  can  live  in  extreme  comfort  while  they 
work  among,  and  are  kind  to,  the  natives. 

While  there  I  saw  the  palace  of  the  Hawaiian  queen,  who 
I  think  was  the  widow  of  King  Kale-Conalain.  She  was  as 
polished  as  a  Parisian  prima  donna.  I  also  saw  the  new 
king,  Lunalilo,  a  fine-looking  Hawaiian,  six  feet  high,  full- 
lipped  and  very  majestic-looking.  He  was  dressed  in  a  frock- 


KOOMA  THE  HAWAIIAN 

coat  and  fashionable  felt  hat.  As  he  appeared  before  the 
people  and  stood  on  the  palace  steps,  the  crowds  waved  and 
cheered  as  the  British  do  to  their  King  and  Queen. 

The  Hawaiian  climate  is  healthy ;  but  Chinese  leprosy 
attacks  the  natives  and  the  white  population,  which  con- 
sists of  French,  English,  Kanakas  negroes,  Chinamen  and 
ex-convicts.  Swarms  of  mosquitoes  find  the  Sandwich  Isles 
a  happy  hunting  ground  for  their  race,  and  are  one  of  its 
drawbacks. 

I  toured  on  the  island  steamer  Kilanea  to  all  the  various 
isles,  and  then  stopped  near  Honolulu  with  Kooma,  who  was 
a  Hawaiian.  He  was  an  old  man,  yet  straight  figured, 
well  tattooed  and  with  intelligent  eyes.  His  high  brow 
denoted  intellectual  qualities  which  were  usually  con- 
spicuous through  their  absence  from  the  heads  of  his  race. 
Hawaiians  are  like  all  the  South  Sea  Islanders,  and  have  a 
deeply  rooted  hatred  for  work.  As  they  have  embraced 
Christianity,  heathen  songs  have  ceased,  and  now,  like  caged 
birds  on  the  polished  perches  of  civilisation,  they  sit  and 
quote,  parrot- like,  all  that  the  missionaries  teach  them. 

Kooma  at  that  time  had  no  calling.  He  was  aged,  and 
had  reared  up  a  large  family,  and  his  athletic  sons,  who 
worked  on  shipping  wharves  at  Honolulu,  repaid  Kooma  for 
his  past  kindness.  He  had  several  married  daughters  also. 
I  was  not  very  well  off  at  the  time  and  gladly  accepted  the 
old  Hawaiian's  offer  to  let  me  occupy  rooms  in  his  home  at 
a  charge  that  nicely  suited  the  state  of  my  exchequer. 

Kooma  had  known  Father  Damien *  intimately,  that 
heroic  leper  priest  who  had  devoted  his  life  to  combating 
heathenism  and  nursing  the  lepers  on  the  Isle  of  Molokai, 
and  had,  a  year  or  so  before,  died  of  the  dreaded  disease. 
So  I  was  fortunately  able  to  hear,  directly  from  him,  details 
of  deep  interest  to  me  concerning  the  life  and  character  of 
the  celebrated  priest,  who  had  emigrated  from  Louvain  as  a 

1  Joseph  Damien  de  Veuster  was  born  at  Tremeloo,  a  small  peasant 
village  near  Louvain,  in  1840;  and  in  peaceful  scenes  that  are  now 
ravaged  by  the  relentless  tramp  of  materialistic  battalions  he,  as  a  boy, 
dreamed  and  fed  his  imagination  and  intense  genius  for  helping 
humanity.  He  died  on  I5th  April  1889. 
G  97 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

missionary  to  Honolulu,  and  after  a  strenuous  life  of  self- 
sacrifice  lay  in  his  grave  near  his  stricken  children  on  the 
lonely  lazaretto  isle,  Molokai. 

It  appeared  that  my  friend  had  known  Damien  many  years 
before  he  went  to  Molokai ;  had  officiated  as  his  servant, 
and  helped  the  missionary  build  some  of  the  extemporised 
churches  and  homes  at  Kohala  and  elsewhere. 

Sitting  by  his  side,  by  the  window  of  his  humble  home- 
stead, while  native  children  romped  under  the  palms  out  in 
the  hot  sunlight,  I  talked  to  Kooma  of  many  things,  and  hear- 
ing that  he  had  known  Father  Damien  I  at  once  plied  him 
with  questions.  "Was  Damien  a  kind  and  good  man, 
Kooma  ?  "  I  asked,  and  then,  with  much  pride  that  he  was 
able  to  give  me  information  concerning  such  a  popular  white 
man,  he  blew  whiffs  of  tobacco  through  his  thin,  wrinkled 
lips  and  answered  :  "  I  have  cut  wood  and  dug  hundreds  of 
post-holes  for  the  great  white  priest,  and  he  no  pay  me." 

"  Did  not  pay  you  ?  "  I  said,  astonished. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  I  knew  that  he  was  poor  and 
had  no  money,  and  so  I  work  for  no  wages."  After 
many  questions  and  replies  which  dealt  chiefly  with  the 
Hawaiian's  own  character  and  importance,  I  gathered  that 
Kooma  had  collected  firewood  for  the  lonely  priest,  and  had 
done  many  services  for  him,  both  as  a  friend  and  a  servant, 
out  of  a  good  heart,  for  it  appeared  that  Damien  was  not 
by  any  means  an  austere  man  or  master,  but  one  who  worked 
with  those  around  him  in  a  spirit  of  good  comradeship. 

If  anyone  imposed  upon  the  natives  and  Damien  heard  of 
it,  he  would  hotly  resent  the  imposition,  and  with  flashing 
eyes  shout  and  fight  for  their  rights  as  though  they  were  his 
own  children. 

Years  before  Damien  went  to  Molokai  a  handsome 
Hawaiian  girl,  who  lived  at  Kahalo,  loved  a  Society  Island 
youth  who  had,  with  his  parents,  emigrated  to  the  Sandwich 
Islands.  The  father  of  the  maid  disliked  the  youth,  who 
was  an  idle,  good-for-nothing  fellow,  and  so  would  not 
encourage  the  lad's  attentions  to  his  daughter.  For  some 
time  the  lovers  met  in  secret,  for  love  laughs  at  locksmiths 
in  Hawaii  as  well  as  elsewhere.  One  night,  as  Damien  sat 

98 


FATHER  DAMIEN  AND  THE  HAWAIIAN  MAID 

by  his  fireside  in  his  lonely  hut  having  his  humble  meal,  the 
love-sick  maid  appeared  at  his  door.  Crossing  her  hands  on 
her  breast,  she  bowed,  half  frightened,  and  after  much 
hesitation  pleaded  to  the  Catholic  Father  on  the  youth's 
behalf,  begging  him  to  help  her,  for  she  was  in  great  distress  ; 
and  knowing  that  Damien  was  a  great  missionary  and  priest 
of  the  white  God,  she  suddenly  fell  on  her  knees  and  confessed 
all.  She  was  in  trouble  through  the  lad,  and,  telling  Damien 
this,  she  laid  her  head  on  his  knee  and  cried  bitterly  ;  for  the 
kindness  of  his  eyes  soothed  her  and  made  her  feel  like  a  little 
child.  Gently  bidding  her  to  rise,  the  Father  told  her  to 
cease  from  troubling,  and  said  :  "  Go,  my  child,  home  ;  tell 
thy  father  all ;  also  that  thou  hast  told  this  thing  to  me,  and 
I  will  come  and  see  him." 

The  priest  did  all  that  he  promised  ;  and  the  next  evening 
the  sinful  youth  who  had  brought  sorrow  to  Ramao,  for  that 
was  her  name,  appeared  before  the  hut  door  wherein  lived 
Father  Damien  and,  shamefaced,  hung  his  head  for  a  long 
while.  Kooma,  who  sat  telling  me  all  this,  added  :  "  And  the 
great  white  Father  put  the  spirit  of  Christ  in  Juno's  (the 
lad's)  heart ;  for  he  became  good,  and  worked  hard,  and  was 
forgiven  for  that  which  he  did,  and  they  were  happy  and  had 
many  children  ;  and  I  learnt  to  love  Juno  in  his  manhood,  for 
he  was  a  good  father  and  kind  to  the  maid  who  was  my 
daughter !  "  And,  saying  all  this,  he  pushed  the  window 
higher  up  and  pointed  to  a  tall  maid  who,  in  her  ridi  robe, 
came  singing  down  the  track  by  the  jungle  ferns.  On  her 
bare  shoulders  she  humped  baskets  of  live  fish  which  had 
been  just  caught  below  in  the  sea.  "  She,"  Kooma  said, 
"  is  my  granddaughter,  and  was  the  unborn  child  of  the 
fallen  maid  whom  Father  Damien  was  kind  to  "  ;  and  there 
she  stood  in  the  doorway  and  gazed  on  us  both  with  laughing, 
sparkling  eyes,  bare  from  the  waist  upwards,  excepting  for  a 
thread  of  beads  hanging  at  her  breast  and  a  Catholic  cross, 
with  a  tiny  figure  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  swinging  below.  I 
looked  at  her  with  deep  interest,  and  thought  of  the  kindness 
of  the  missionary  priest,  dead  in  his  grave  at  Molokai. 

Kooma  showed  me  a  Bible  which  had  been  given  him 
by  Father  Damien.  It  was  well  thumb-marked,  torn,  and 

99 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

pencilled  by  the  priest  at  those  pages  where  he  had  made  my 
friend  memorise  different  passages.  On  the  front  leaf  was 
Damien's  signature.  On  my  handing  the  sacred  gift  back 
to  the  Hawaiian  he  carefully  placed  it  at  the  bottom  of  his 
chest ;  and  I  knew  that  it  would  be  no  use  my  attempting 
to  get  it  from  him,  however  much  I  might  want  the  book. 
Many  interesting  things  did  I  learn  from  my  stay  at  this 
native's  house,  for  night  after  night  I  would  get  him  in  a 
reminiscent  mood.  It  appeared  that  as  time  wore  on  the 
young  priest,  who  was  a  handsome,  healthy-looking  man, 
became  somewhat  subdued  and  saddened,  and  aged  con- 
siderably in  the  space  of  three  or  four  years.  At  times 
he  was  morose  and  unapproachable,  though  afterwards 
he  would  gaze  with  kindly  eyes  on  those  whom  he  might 
have  spoken  to  in  anger. 

"  Did  he  ever  go  away  ?  "  I  asked  Kooma,  and  he 
answered  :  "  Sometimes  he  would  go  for  one  or  two  days, 
and  often  at  night-time  go  off  wandering  alone  in  the  forest- 
lands  about  his  house ;  and  night  after  night  at  sunset  he 
would  sit  with  his  chin  on  his  hands  and  gaze  toward  the  sea- 
ward sunset,  with  eyes  that  saw  far  away."  And  then  Kooma 
added  :  "  And  I  would  say, '  Master,  shall  I  get  thee  more  fire- 
wood ?  '  and  he  would  not  answer,  but  would  steadily  gaze 
on,  and  I  could  see  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  I  knew  that  he 
sorrowed  over  that  which  I  knew  not  of."  So  earnest  was 
Kooma's  manner  that,  as  he  told  me  these  things,  I  saw  the 
past,  the  lonely  hut  home  and  the  exiled  priest  gazing  into 
the  sunset,  sick  at  heart  as  he  dreamed  of  his  childhood's 
home  across  the  world.  I  wondered  somewhat,  and  thought 
over  the  stories  Raeltoa  of  Samoa  had  told  me,  which  I 
have  written  about  in  my  earlier  book  of  reminiscences. 
For  Raeltoa  the  Samoan  had  also  known  Father  Damien, 
as,  of  course,  hundreds  of  natives  did,  and  had  told  me, 
unasked,  of  his  kindness  and  heart-felt  sorrow  for  those  who 
hid  from  the  leper  captors  as  they  searched  for  the  stricken 
people. 

For  leprosy  had  wiped  out  thousands  of  the  natives  of  the 
Sandwich  Islands  and  elsewhere.  When  once  the  victims 
revealed  the  purplish-yellow  patch  on  their  bodies  they  were 

100 


DAMIEN'S  GRIEF 


doomed,  for  no  cure  was,  or  is,  known  for  the  scourge  of 
leprosy. 

In  Kooma's  house  dwelt  a  chief  who  lived  in  Oahu.  He 
had  elephantiasis,  which  had  swelled  his  legs  to  three  times 
their  normal  size.  He  used  to  sit  under  the  pandanus-trees 
reading  his  Bible  as  I  talked  with  Kooma,  and  I  was  ex- 
tremely pleased  to  hear,  on  inquiring,  that  his  complaint  was 
not  contagious ;  for  when  he -squatted  with  his  knees  up  in 
front  of  him,  so  swollen  were  his  limbs  that  his  body  and  head 
were  hidden  from  view. 

But  to  go  back  to  Kooma's  reminiscences.  "  What  hap- 
pened before  Father  Damien  went  away  to  the  Leper 
Isle  of  Molokai?"  I  asked,  and  Kooma  answered:  "He 
became  most  sad,  and  then  wished  many  of  my  people  who 
had  the  leper  patch  good-bye,  and  promised  to  go  one  day  and 
see  them,  and  made  them  happier  with  smiles  and  promises ; 
and  often  he  would  go  a  long  way  off  to  comfort  those 
whose  relatives  had  been  taken  to  the  dreaded  lazaretto." 

"  Did  you  see  Father  Damien  after  he  had  gone  to  the 
lazaretto  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Yes,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  he  looked 
most  sad  and  very,  very  much  older  :  and  I  asked  him  of  my 
sister,  whom  he  had  seen  at  Molokai,  for  she  was  stricken 
with  the  plague,  and  he  said,  4  Kooma,  your  sister  is  happy  ; 
the  spirit  is  well,  though  the  flesh,  which  is  nothing,  is  ill." 

Then  Kooma  told  me  much  of  the  doings  of  the  Flemish 
priest :  how  he  had  toiled  incessantly  for  the  welfare  of 
his  native  children,  ministering  to  their  souls ;  and  how  his 
influence  had  soothed  their  hearts,  hearts  that  still  half 
nursed  the  old  traditions  ;  for  the  Hawaiians  were  originally 
a  wild  race,  and  still  their  songs  told  of  heathen  mythology,  of 
mighty  warriors,  of  love  and  ravishment,  and  of  cannibalistic 
times,  so  Damien's  task  of  reforming  them  was  no  easy  one. 

For  many  years  the  dreadful  scourge  had  crept,  with  its 
fatal  grip,  over  the  whole  of  the  Sandwich  Group,  and  as 
time  went  on  it  became  so  prevalent  that  the  Hawaiian 
Government  decided  that  the  best  step  to  take  to  stay  the 
horror  of  fetid  rot  which  was  annihilating  the  race  was  to 
isolate  all  those  afflicted  with  the  disease  and  send  them  to 
Molokai. 

101 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

k  '  »  *  1 ""  T    •  *  *       «     "     •        •       . « 

Molokai  was  a  lonely,  half-barren  isle  surrounded  by 
rough,  beaten  shores  of  crag  and  fortress  reef  that  for  ever 
withstood  the  charges  of  the  seas  as  eternally  they  clashed, 
broke  and  moaned  through  the  caves  of  the  death-stricken 
isle,  echoing  and  mingling  with  the  moan  of  memories  and 
deathly  cries  that  faded  on  the  dying  lips  of  the  plague- 
stricken  men,  women  and  children  who  rotted  till  they 
became  lipless  skeletons,  still  alive  in  their  tomb — the  grey, 
gloomy  lazaretto  of  the  Leper  Isle.  Terrible  was  the  grief 
of  the  natives  as  those  employed  to  separate  the  lepers  sought 
out  all  those  who  were  spotted  with  the  livid  leper  patch. 
Father  Damien's  heart  was  sick  within  him  as  he  heard  the 
lamentations  of  forced  farewells,  as,  standing  by  their  captors, 
helpless  men  and  women,  gazing  over  their  shoulders,  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  those  they  loved  and  went  away  for  ever  ! 

Father  Damien,  who  had  devotedly  administered  comfort 
to  the  stricken  ones  who  were  scattered  over  the  isle,  saw 
and  felt  deeply  the  grief  of  those  around  him  ;  but  he  was 
powerless  to  help  the  unhappy  people  ;  he  knew  the  enforced 
separation  was  decreed  by  the  authorities,  and  was  for  the 
best. 

It  was  well  known  that  many  of  the  unfortunate  victims 
were  hidden  away  in  the  forest-lands,  or  in  caves  by  the 
shores :  maidens  secreting  their  lovers,  and  lovers  hiding 
the  pleading  maids,  husbands  their  wives,  and  wives  their 
children.  Often  in  the  night,  as  the  dread  inquisition  dis- 
covered some  trembling,  hidden  victim,  a  scream  would  break 
the  silence  of  the  jungle  as  the  victim  was  muffled,  gagged 
and  taken  away  ;  for  the  leper-hunters  were  not  the  tender- 
est  and  most  poetical  of  men.  Money  was  their  reward  for 
all  the  lepers  they  captured,  and  the  men  hired  for  the  job 
were  chosen  for  their  evil  reputations  and  the  expression  of 
brutality  on  their  dark  faces.  Father  Damien's  heart  was 
indeed  wretched  over  the  fate  of  his  children. 

As  Kooma  the  Hawaiian  sat  telling  me  all  this,  and  the 
shadows  fell  and  the  island  nightingale  sang  up  in  the 
pandanus-trees,  I  watched  his  earnest  face  and  listened 
attentively,  for  I  knew  that  I  was  hearing  the  truth  of  much 
that  was  hidden  from  the  world.  I  learnt  that  the  sad  priest 

102 


THE  LEPER  HUNTERS 

would  sit  at  night  for  hours  under  the  coco-palms,  deep  in 
thought,  and  have  no  sleep,  so  troubled  was  he  over  the  fate 
of  the  flock  that  he  loved  ;  and  many  times  did  he  help  the 
afflicted  ones,  and  long  and  deeply  did  he  hesitate  ere  he  told 
the  authorities  that  which  he  had  to  tell,  and  which  his 
tender  heart  stayed  him  from  telling.  As  Kooma  told  me 
this  I  saw  that  his  memories  of  the  priest  were  sincere  and 
loving  enough.  Then  he  called  out  "  Pooline  !  Pooline  !  " 
and  a  native  girl  came  and  poked  her  head  in  at  the  door- 
way ;  it  was  his  granddaughter,  whom  Father  Damien 
had  christened.  They  had  called  her  after  Damien's  sister 
Pauline  (which  they  pronounced  Pooline) ;  for  the  priest 
often  spoke  of  his  sister  in  Flanders,  and  told  Kooma  that 
some  day  she  would  come  out  to  him  to  share  his  work  and 
help  him  in  it,  and  several  times  he  wrote  home  and  asked 
her  to  think  the  matter  over. 

Few  were  surprised  when  at  length  Father  Damien  volun- 
teered to  go  to  Molokai  and  administer  faith  and  comfort  to 
his  lost  children  in  exile.  He  taught  them  to  be  patient  as 
he  walked  amongst  them  and  crept  by  the  lazaretto  huts  of 
death,  knitting  their  shrouds  and  gazing  with  kind  eyes  on 
their  faces  till  they  ceased  to  see  and  feel,  and  he  buried  them. 
Lonely  indeed  those  nights  must  have  been  as,  alone  with 
grief  and  silence,  his  bent  form  hammered  and  hammered, 
beating  out  the  muffled  notes  that  drove  in  coffin  nails : 
for  he  made  the  last  beds  of  his  dead  children,  digging  their 
graves  and  burying  with  his  own  hands  many  scores  of  the 
stricken  dead,  until  he  at  last  succumbed  to  the  scourge  him- 
self. He  lies  buried  with  those  he  died  for,  and  has,  let  us 
hope,  found  a  reward  for  his  self-sacrifice  in  heaven. 

From  Kooma  I  heard  much  of  Damien's  true  character, 
his  love  of  justice  and  his  impulsiveness  in  hastening  to 
help  the  weak,  regardless  of  all  consequences.  Once,  while 
Father  Damien  was  eating  his  supper,  a  Hawaiian  appeared 
at  the  door  and  said,  "  Master,  trouble  has  befallen  me  and 
my  home  "  ;  and  then  told  the  priest  of  a  tragedy  that  had 
occurred.  A  native  girl  through  jealousy  had  stabbed  another 
who  had  sought  her  lover,  and  was  either  hiding  in  the 
forest  or  shore  caves  or  had  killed  herself.  A.11  night  the 

103 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

native  and  Father  Damien  searched,  and  at  length  the  girl 
was  found  almost  lifeless,  covered  in  blood,  on  the  shore 
reefs  seaward  from  Kilanea,  her  body  lying  half  on  the  sands 
and  half  in  the  waves.  She  had  slashed  herself  and  had 
nearly  bled  to  death.  Damien  carried  the  girl  for  miles  in 
his  arms,  bandaged  her  and  saved  her  life  ;  also  the  life  of 
the  girl  she  had  stabbed  so  viciously  in  her  jealousy.  When 
they  were  both  well  again  he  brought  them  together,  made 
them  embrace  each  other  and  swear  to  forget  all,  with  the 
result  that  they  became  greater  friends  through  being  erst- 
while enemies.  Each  secured  a  lover  to  her  liking,  and  ever 
blessed  the  great  Father  who  had  befriended  them  instead  of 
handing  them  over  to  the  authorities  at  Honolulu — authorities 
whom  Damien  hated,  for  they  moved  on  material  lines  and 
looked  upon  cruel  force  as  the  best  means  of  discouraging 
crime,  and  on  kindness  as  insanity  more  dangerous  than  the 
crime  it  forgave. 

In  a  corner  of  Father  Damien' s  lonely  little  homestead  he 
kept  the  cherished  letters  that  arrived  from  his  homeland 
across  the  sea.  Night  after  night  he  would  take  those  letters 
out  and  read  them  through  again,  and  then  tenderly  place 
them  in  a  small  pot  and  hide  them  beneath  his  trestle  bed. 
They  were  letters  from  his  sister  Pauline  and  other  relatives 
in  Flanders. 

One  night  he  sought  them  and  they  were  missing.  Great 
was  Father  Damien's  grief,  and  even  rage  flushed  his  face  as 
he  demanded  of  Kooma  if  he  knew  of  their  whereabouts. 
For  hours  he  searched,  "  and  never  was  the  Master  in  so 
great  a  temper ;  he  look  much  fierce  and  his  eyes  fire  and 
then  cry,"  said  Kooma,  as  I  listened.  "  What  did  he  do 
then  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Did  he  find  the  letters  ?  "  "  Yes,"  said 
Kooma,  "  he  did  find  letters  :  a  dog  that  Father  Damien 
had  been  kind  to  had  smelt  and  pawed  them  up  and  run  off 
with  the  pot,  which  we  found  in  the  scrub.  The  great  Father 
was  then  good  to  us  and  did  ask  me  to  forgive  him  for  that 
which  he  said  ;  which  I  did  do  ;  and  the  dog  too  he  forgave  ; 
and  Father  Damien  once  more  smiled,  stroked  the  shaggy 
thief,  and  it  sat  up,  looked  at  the  Father's  eyes,  wagged  its 
tail  and  was  happy." 

104 


STEVENSON'S  LETTER  TO  DR  HYDE 

I  often  heard  a  lot  of  discussion  about  Father  Damien's 
life  and  work,  sometimes  between  rough  island  traders,  and 
sometimes  between  men  of  the  conventional  middle  class. 
A  few  of  the  former  had  met  Father  Damien,  or  knew  those 
who  were  acquainted  with  him,  but  most  of  them  expressed 
opinions  from  hearsay  and  the  low  or  high  order  of  their  own 
instincts.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  celebrated  open  letter 
to  Dr  Hyde  had  much  to  do  with  the  popular  nature  of  the 
controversy  and  the  growing  enthusiasm  for  the  self-sacrifice 
of  the  dead  priest. 

For  those  who  may  not  know  the  exact  facts  I  relate  them 
here. 

After  Father  Damien's  death  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
whilst  cruising  in  the  South  Seas,  happened  to  read  a  paper 
that  contained  a  letter  written  by  Dr  Hyde,  of  Honolulu,  to 
the  Rev.  Mr  Gage,  of  Sydney,  who  in  turn  sent  it  to  The 
Sydney  Presbyterian  for  publication.  Here  is  the  letter  : 

To  The  Rev.  H.  B.  GAGE. 

HONOLULU,  2nd  August  1889. 

DEAR  BROTHER, — In  answer  to  your  inquiries  about 
Father  Damien,  I  can  only  reply  that  we  who  knew  the  man 
are  surprised  at  the  extravagant  newspaper  laudations,  as  if 
he  was  a  most  saintly  philanthropist.  The  simple  truth  is, 
he  was  a  coarse,  dirty  man,  headstrong  and  bigoted.  He  was 
not  sent  to  Molokai,  but  went  there  without  orders  ;  did  not 
stay  at  the  leper  settlement  before  he  became  one  himself, 
but  circulated  freely  over  the  whole  island  (less  than  half  the 
island  is  devoted  to  lepers),  and  he  came  often  to  Honolulu. 
He  had  no  hand  in  the  reforms  and  improvements  inaugur- 
ated, which  were  the  work  of  our  Board  of  Health,  as  occasion 
required  and  means  were  provided.  The  leprosy  of  which  he 
died  should  be  attributed  to  his  vices  and  carelessness. 

Others  having  done  much  for  the  lepers,  our  own  ministers, 
the  Government  physicians  and  so  forth,  but  never  with  the 
Catholic  idea  of  meriting  eternal  life.  Yours,  etc., 

C.  M.  HYDE. 

(Published  in  The  Sydney  Presbyterian,  26th  October 
1889.) 

105 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

When  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  read  the  above  letter, 
and  the  comments  upon  it,  he  was  deeply  incensed, 
and  wrote  a  defence  of  the  priest  about  which  the  world 
knows. 

Mr  Melville,  whom  I  met  at  Apia,  told  me  an  interesting 
story  about  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  his  championship  of 
Father  Damien.  While  Mr  Melville  was  a  passenger  on  a 
ship,  the  Lubeck,  I  think,  he  sat  near  Stevenson,  who  was 
dining  in  the  saloon.  The  conversation  touched  on  Father 
Damien  and  Dr  Hyde's  letter,  and  when  a  passenger  revealed 
by  his  remarks  that  he  was  half  willing  to  believe  Hyde, 
Stevenson  almost  shouted  and  insulted  him.  The  passenger, 
irritated,  persevered  with  his  opinions  and  said  something 
further,  whereupon  Stevenson  said  :  "  Some  of  you  men  still 
make  one  think  of  the  danger  of  Christ's  mission  and  His 
risks  on  earth,"  or  something  to  that  effect.  On  this  the 
passenger  answered  :  "Mr  Stevenson,  you  forget  yourself," 
and  Stevenson  immediately  replied  :  "I  would  to  God  that 
some  of  you  fellows  would  forget  yourselves  and  remember 
the  virtues  of  others." 

When  Mr  Melville  told  me  this  I  smiled,  for  from  my  own 
personal  recollections  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  I  knew  that 
he  did  not  need  a  battalion  of  supporters  to  help  him  main- 
tain his  own  opinion  when  he  felt  that  he  upheld  a  noble 
purpose :  for  Stevenson  was  a  fearless,  though  gentle  soul, 
even  apart  from  his  literary  life  and  work.  Indeed  Damien 
found  in  him  a  kindred  and  worthy  champion.  Not  always 
are  men  able  so  well  to  express  outwardly  that  which  they 
beautifully  write  and  feel. 

As  I  have  said,  much  rumour  and  discussion  followed  both 
Dr  Hyde's  letter  and  Stevenson's  powerful  retaliation,  and 
it  was  not  uncommon  for  Catholic  and  Protestant  divines 
engaged  in  arguments  on  the  matter  to  come  even. to  blows. 
Now  all  men  admit  that  Dr  Hyde's  letter  of  denunciation 
was  indirectly  one  incentive  that  drew  the  attention  and 
praise  of  the  world  at  large  to  the  heroism  of  the  martyr 
priest,  and  was  responsible  for  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's 
reply  and  vindication  of  him.  Personally  I  do  not  think 
Dr  Hyde  was  as  deliberately  hypocritical  as  Rumour  has 

106 


FORKED  TONGUES  OF  ENVY 

painted  him.  Of  course  this  does  not  imply  that  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson's  counter -denunciation  of  Hyde's  epistle 
was  unjust  or  too  fierce  ;  he  wrote  as  the  first  champion 
voice,  and  wrote  from  the  white-hot  intensity  of  indignation 
over  what  he  felt  was  a  deadly  wrong  done  to  the  memory  of 
a  great  man.  This  can,  too,  in  the  consciousness  of  man's 
fallibility,  be  applied  to  motive  on  the  other  side,  for  Dr 
Hyde,  of  Honolulu,  also  wrote  to  his  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr  Gage> 
from  a  firm  belief  in  his  heart  that  rumour  was  truth  and 
Father  Damien's  memory  was  not  deserving  of  "  extrava- 
gant laudation."  Many  others  of  his  own  denomination  had 
devoted  their  lives  to  the  lepers,  both  on  the  islands  and  at 
the  lazaretto  at  Molokai,  and  so  Dr  Hyde's  great  sin  was  in 
believing  that  which  he  was  told  and  remembering  the  self- 
sacrifice  of  his  own  brethren  who  had  also  toiled  on  behalf  of 
the  lepers. 

The  voice  of  Rumour  has  many  forked  tongues  of 
envy  and  the  carelessness  of  thoughtless  scandal.  Our 
religion  is  founded  on  the  sorrow  and  disastrous  result  of  its 
tongue,  for  did  not  Christ  suffer  crucifixion  through  this 
weakness  in  mankind  ?  Through  doubt  and  envy  to  this 
day  some  nations  believe  one  side,  and  others  the  other ; 
and  are  there  not  millions  now  who  do  not  believe  in  that 
which  our  religion  is  founded  on  ?  Was  Dr  Hyde  so 
wicked  ?  I  for  one  do  not  think  so.  Do  we  know  what  he 
thought  after  he  had  written  that  mighty  atom  of  a  letter  ? 
What  were  his  reflections,  misgivings  and  regrets  over  his 
first  belief  and  hasty  conclusions,  and  over  that  celebrated 
blazing  challenge  of  Stevenson's  to  the  world,  revealing  in 
words  of  fire  the  complete  vindication  of  Damien's  life,  work 
and  Christ-like  heroic  virtue  ?  We  can  imagine  what  he  felt 
like,  for  we  all  make  mistakes,  but  not  with  such  drastic 
results. 

The  stern  note  of  intense  application  to  a  set  purpose 
reveals  in  Stevenson's  letter  the  fact  that  he  felt  that  Damien 
needed  an  immediate  champion.  Stevenson  was  at  heart  a 
Christian  man,  in  the  full,  true  sense  of  the  word,  and  I  have 
not  the  slightest  doubt  that  after  his  open  letter  had  fulfilled 
the  purpose  which  he  intended  it  to  fulfil,  and  the  first  heat 

107 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

of  his  just  indignation  had  cooled  down,  he  himself  would 
have  withdrawn  it  from  publication,  if  he  could  have  done 
so,  and  let  the  whole  matter  slumber ;  for  he  of  all  men 
would  not  have  wished  vindictive  roots  to  spread  and  twine 
about  the  hearts  of  men  who  thus  would  strangely  nourish 
the  very  thoughts  that  their  creed  specially  preaches 
against. 

Stevenson  well  knew  man's  weakness,  and  the  bigotry  of 
men  who  differ  on  religious  subjects  and  are  opposed  to  each 
other  by  the  difference  of  creed.  Certainly  the  imputations 
of  undeserved  praise  which  were  suddenly  hurled  at  the  self- 
exiled  priest's  reputation  only  served  one  end  :  to  bring 
out,  if  possible  in  brighter  relief,  the  splendid  heroism  of 
Father  Damien's  life,  both  before  and  after  his  going  back  to 
Molokai.  Even  had  it  been  bitterly  proved  that  the  Flemish 
missionary  was  not  a  spiritual  saint,  but  fallible  flesh  and 
blood  flowing  through  earthly  channels,  which  resisted,  but 
did  not  always  overthrow,  temptation,  still  he  would  stand 
before  us  a  beautiful  man  (and  he  was  a  man) ;  and  to  do  all 
that  he  did,  and  still  have  the  weaknesses  of  mankind,  makes 
the  martyr  stand  out  greater  to  our  eyes  than  if  he  did  his 
wonderful  life's  work  through  some  effortless,  inborn  virtue 
of  heavenly  inheritance. 

The  sad  peasant  priest  of  Louvain  has  been  dead  these 
many  years  ;  he  lived  and  died  without  ambition,  and  only 
in  heaven  may  know  the  earthly  fame  he  achieved.  Well 
may  we  believe  how  beautifully  he  would  smile,  forgive  and 
touch  with  his  lips  the  brows  of  his  erring  detractors,  with 
the  same  spirit  that  made  him  live  and  die  for  his  fellow-men 
with  the  certainty  of  one  final  reward — a  stricken  leper's 
grave  in  far  away  Kalawao,  on  Molokai  Isle. 

Out  of  grey  crags  by  warder-seas  they  creep 

With  wailing  voices  as  the  stars  steal  by  ; 

Dead  men — fast  rotting  on  dark  shores  of  sleep, 

Their  earthly  eyes  still  shape  the  shadowed  sky  ! 

Poor  skeletons,  they  moan,  laugh,  grin  and  weep  ; 

In  loathsome  amorous  arms  some  still  lie. 

Entombed,  they  curse  the  sun — Time's  cruel  dial 
Above  that  vault — the  South  Sea  leper-isle. 

108 


FATHER  DAMIEN 

Hark  to  the  midnight  scream  \  Then  silence  after 
Of  desolation  voiced  by  waves  that  leap 
By  sepulchres — damp  huts  of  sheltered  rafter, 
Where  dreaming  dead  men  shout  thro'  shroudless  sleep  1 
As  windy  trees  wail  dreams  of  long  dead  laughter  ; 
As  o'er  each  wattle  hut  the  night  winds  sweep, 
And  dying  eyes  watch  ships  out  o'er  the  night, 
Pass  shores  of  death  with  port-holes  gleaming  bright ! 

'Twas  on  that  Charnel-isle,  with  watching  eyes 
He  toiled  for  dead  men  who  still  heard  the  waves 
Beat  shoreward  :   saw  the  South  Sea  white  moonrise 
Bathe  their-to-be  forgotten  flowerless  graves  1 
Exiled  pale  hero-priest  !   Full  oft  their  cries 
Smote  his  sad  listening  ears  ;  like  unto  caves 

That  voice  the  mournful  tone  of  ocean's  roll, 

Infinity  entombed  sang  in  his  soul. 

Lonely  as  God,  he  sat  :  enthroned  o'er  pain 
Brave  music  made  of  desolation's  sorrow, 
Christ-like  gazed  on  the  deathless,  crying  slain  ! 
His  eyes  breathed  light — foretelling  some  bright  morrow 
Till  from  their  tombs  they  rose — the  dead  again  1 
Dark  skeletons  of  woe,  they  rose  to  borrow 
Life  from  Molokai's  hero  : — men  denied 
That  leper-priest — like  Christ — when  Damien  died. 


109 


CHAPTER  X 

An  Inland  March — The  Great  Chief — A  Siva  Dance — A  Sailor's 
Party — Nina's  Samoan  Fairy  Tale — Death — The  Golden  Horn 
— Idols — A  Marquesan  Village — We  ship  as  Stowaways 

I  EASILY  recall  to  mind  my  farewell  days  in  Samoa, 
and  the  native  trader  with  whom  I  lodged.  His  home- 
stead was  a  comfortable  bungalow,  sheltered  by  coco- 
palms,  and  not  far  from  Saluafata  village.  I  had  not  much 
money  at  that  time,  and  my  friendly  native  only  charged  me 
just  what  I  could  afford  to  give  him,  which  was,  unfortun- 
ately, very  little.  He  had  three  daughters  and  two  grown-up 
sons  who  were  just  about  my  age  ;  they  spoke  good  English, 
were  good  companions,  and  we  had  merry  times  together.  I 
gave  the  eldest  daughter  music  lessons  during  my  short  stay. 
Her  father  purchased  a  cheap  German  violin  down  in  the 
stores  at  Apia,  and  the  Samoan's  daughter  made  rapid 
progress.  I  taught  her  to  play  by  ear.  Her  relatives  came 
in  from  the  districts  to  hear  her  play  her  first  Samoan  hymn. 
I  have  never  been  so  complimented  for  my  teaching  ability 
in  my  life  as  I  was  over  that  dusky  girl's  progress.  I  felt 
well  repaid  by  their  gratitude.  They  fed  me  up,  for  I  had 
been  ill  for  a  fortnight  with  a  severe  cold  and  was  getting 
thin.  I  went  off  almost  every  evening  with  the  sons  fishing, 
and  lived  in  real  native  style.  I  enjoyed  the  various  native 
dishes,  for  Mrs  Pompo,  my  host's  wife,  was  a  clever  cook, 
and  served  up  the  cooked  fish  with  stewed  yams  and  many 
more  island  delicacies.  Poi-poi  was  a  favourite  dish :  a 
mixture  of  taro,  bread-fruit,  yams  and  wild  bananas. 

My  host  had  several  wealthy  relatives  living  inland,  and  at 
last  the  sons,  young  Pompy  and  Tango,  succeeded  in  per- 
suading me  to  go  off  to  the  inland  villages  with  my  violin  to 
visit  them.  I  well  remember  the  long,  hot  march  they  gave 
me,  as  I  tramped  between  them  for  miles  and  miles  along 
tracks  just  by  the  coast,  and  then  inland  across  paths  by  the 

no 


ON  THE  WALLABY 

coco-palms.  Some  of  the  journey  was  over  rough  jungle 
country  beautiful  with  tropical  trees  and  flowers.  Merrily 
my  comrades  sang  as  I  plucked  the  fiddle  strings,  banjo 
fashion,  marching  along  far  away,  with  the  civilised  cities 
thousands  of  miles  behind. 

We  slept  out  the  first  night,  as  indeed  I  often  did  in  my 
travels.  Pompy  and  Tango  lay  asleep  on  each  side  of  me  as, 
sleepless,  I  looked  round  my  bedroom  floor  and  saw  my  palm- 
trees  standing  windless  and  still  and  my  bright  stars  over  me 
flashing  in  the  midnight  skies. 

Next  day  we  passed  across  thick  island  jungle  and  then 
suddenly  emerged  on  to  a  large  clearing,  where  by  a 
river  stood  several  isolated  huts.  Through  the  doors  came 
rushing  brown-faced  native  girls,  with  delight  and  wonder 
shining  in  their  dark  eyes  at  hearing  the  music  of  the  fiddle  ! 
Like  little  dark  devils  bare-footed  children  came  running 
behind  us,  and  then,  just  as  we  were  passing  close  by  the  half- 
open  hut  door,  out  came  the  picturesque  bigger  girls  for  the 
second  time,  for  they  had  seen  my  white  face  and  had  rushed 
indoors  with  haste,  all  screaming  out,  "  Papalangi !  "  They 
had  forgotten  their  fig-leaf,  so  to  speak.  At  the  very  most, 
natives,  boys  and  girls  who  lived  inland,  wore  little  dress 
beyond  the  primitive  ridi,  and  if  they  wore  more  than  usual 
it  was  some  remnant  of  European  clothes,  given  them  in 
exchange  for  curios,  or  as  wages  by  artful  traders. 

On  the  green,  scrubby  slope,  under  a  palm-tree  by  her  hut 
door,  stood  a  full-figured,  dark  Samoan  mother,  showing  her 
white  teeth  as  she  smiled.  She  looked  like  some  grotesque 
statue  as  she  stood  there  quite  still  beneath  the  blue  tropical 
sky,  for  she  wore  a  delicate  undergarment  as  a  robe,  which 
just  covered  half  of  her  bronzed  figure — a  present,  possibly, 
from  some  trader's  wife. 

As  the  native  girls  came  down  and  walked  by  me,  gazing 
sideways  with  great  curiosity,  the  tall  grass  brushed  their 
bare  knees  and  their  eyes  shone  as  they  revealed  their  pearly 
rows  of  teeth  and  laughed,  calling  out  to  each  other,  "  Arika 
pakea  ! "  Samoan  girls  are  great  flirts,  yet  I  felt  that  I  trod 
some  enchanted  land  where  vice  was  unknown.  The  faint 

1  White  man. 
Ill 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

inland  wind  stirred  their  loose,  bronze- coloured  hair,  wherein 
they  had  stuck  white  and  crimson  hibiscous  blossoms  or 
grass.  Several  little  mites,  with  tiny  wild  faces,  came  close 
up  to  us  and  stood  with  boastful  bravery  a  moment  in  front 
of  me,  their  little  demon-like  eyes  anxiously  striving  to 
examine  my  violin,  and  when  I  suddenly  struck  all  the 
strings  together — r-h-r-r-r-r-r-r  r-r-n-k — off  they  rushed 
back  to  the  hut  doors  and  gave  a  frightened  scream.  Out 
poked  the  frizzy  heads  of  all  the  mothers  to  see  what  the 
hullabaloo  was  about.  When  they  saw  me  they  waved  their 
dark  hands  and  shouted,  "  Kaoha  !  "  or  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 
as  I  tramped  by  between  my  two  comrades. 

About  a  mile  farther  on  we  came  across  another  small 
group  of  huts,  not  far  from  a  grove  of  orange-trees,  where  we 
picked  the  golden  fruit  out  of  the  deep  grass  ;  it  tasted  like 
pine -apples  and  oranges  mixed.     Only  two  old  native  women 
were  in  sight.     They  were  very  busy,  it  was  their  washing 
day,  and  one  of  them  stooped  over  an  old  salt  pork  ship's 
barrel,  washing  the  village  clothes  :    on  a  line  hard  by, 
stretched  between  two  coco-nut  trees,  hung  a  row  of  newly 
washed  ridis,  steaming  in  the  hot  sun.    As  we  approached, 
Pompy  and  Tango  intimated  that  it  was  the  abode  of  one  of 
their  great  relatives.     On  the  ground  beneath  a  clump  of 
bamboos,  stretched  out  flat,  was  an  old  Samoan  chief.     "  O 
Le  Tula  !  "  Pompy  shouted,  and  the  old  fellow  slowly  lifted 
his  wrinkled   face  and  welcomed   us.    My  comrades,   his 
grandsons,  jabbered  away  to  him  in  native  lingo,  and  intro- 
duced me  with  pride,  telling  me  that  I  was  gazing  on  one  of 
the  past  great  chiefs  who  had  been  King  Malietoa's  special 
favourite.    He  had  a  classical  profile  that  was  slightly  spoilt, 
for  one  of  his  ears  was  missing  ;  it  had  been  blown  off  by  a 
gun-shot  in  a  tribal  battle  some  years  before.    As  I  gazed 
upon  him  with  reverence  his  eyes  looked  straight  in  front  of 
him  and  he  pulled  himself  up  majestically.    His  large  frame 
was  well  tattooed.     Suddenly  he  signed  to  me  and  said  some- 
thing over  and  over  again  in  broken  English.    When  I  at 
last  understood  I  forced  a  smile  to  my  lips  and  handed  him 
my  last  shilling.     I  could  not  very  well  refuse,  as  I  had 
walked  many  miles  to  see  him.    He  grabbed  the  coin,  and 

112 


SIVA  DANCERS  IN  THE  FOREST 

his  face  went  into  a  mass  of  wrinkles  as  he  grunted  out 
"  Mitar."  On  a  slope  about  five  hundred  yards  off  was  a 
tin-roofed  mission  room,  and  a  missionary's  homestead  close 
by.  There  was  only  a  half-caste  assistant  there ;  "the  Boss" 
had  gone  off  to  Apia.  The  half-caste  seemed  a  decent 
fellow,  and  gave  us  a  cup  of  German  tea  ;  for  Malietoa's  old 
chief  had  bolted  off  to  the  nearest  rum  shop,  miles  away 
probably,  directly  he  had  got  possession  of  my  shilling,  to 
get  te  rom.1 

That  night  I  witnessed  a  native  dance,  resembling  in 
character  the  dances  which  I  have  already  described  in  my 
first  book  of  reminiscences.  But  this  dance  slightly  differed 
from  the  dance  scenes  of  my  previous  experience.  It  was 
more  rhythmical  and,  instead  of  being  grotesque,  was  a 
weirdly  beautiful  sight ;  for  as  the  large,  low  moon,  half  sub- 
merged by  the  distant  hill,  sent  a  flood  of  light  through  the 
coco-palms  and  banyan -trees,  it  lit  up  the  moving,  dark  faces 
on  the  forest  stage  floor,  which  was  a  cleared  patch.  A 
picturesque  Samoan  girl  stood  swathed  in  a  girdle  of  festival 
flowers  and  sang,  while  the  squatting  Siva  dancers  rocked 
their  bodies  to  and  fro  and  clapped  their  hands.  I  stood 
close  by  and  played  on  my  violin  a  minor  melody ;  and  its 
silvery  wails  were  accompanied  by  the  full  orchestral  moan 
of  the  whole  forest  of  giant  moonlit  trees  as  the  wind  blew 
fitfully  through  them.  Then  came  the  wild  chorus,  as  the 
circle  of  girls  rose  and,  like  a  crowd  of  wood  nymphs  made  of 
moonshine,  embraced  each  other  and  then  divided,  whirling 
and  waving  their  arms  fantastically  in  the  glimpsing  moon- 
light that  poured  through  the  palms.  As  for  me,  I  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  dancers  playing  my  violin  and  firing  away 
double  forte,  and  presto  velocity,  to  keep  in  with  the  barbarian 
tempo.  About  a  mile  off  was  the  spot  to  which  I  had  been 
dragged  by  a  tribe  of  natives,  who  had  forced  me  to  play  at 
a  cannibalistic  feast  during  my  previous  sojourn  in  Samoa. 

After  the  forest  ball  had  closed,  and  the  performers  were 
dispersing  and  going  off  to  their  homes,  a  well-dressed 
native,  who  had  known  me  when  I  was  in  Samoa  before, 
recognised  me,  and  I  was  extremely  pleased  to  see  him.  He 

1  Gin  or  rum. 
H  113 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

was  a  trader  and  an  intimate  friend  of  Hornecastle's — my 
convivial  old  friend  of  earlier  days.  I  learnt  from  him  that 
Hornecastle  had  gone  away  to  the  Gilbert  Group,  or  to  the 
Solomon  Isles,  I  forget  which.  The  trader  invited  us  to  his 
house,  where  we  spent  the  night.  We  had  no  sooner  got 
under  the  shelter  of  his  welcome  roof  than  clouds  slid  over  the 
sky  and  a  terrific  storm  came  on .  It  lasted  well  into  the  night 
and  nearly  blew  me  off  my  sleeping-mat,  for  the  Samoan's 
house  was  open  all  round.  To  ease  my  restlessness  I  rose 
and  looked  out  on  to  the  sleeping  village.  The  rain  had 
ceased  and  the  moon,  low  on  the  ranges  of  Vaea  Mountain, 
looked  like  a  globe  lamp  wedged  between  the  sky  and  the 
earth.  Space  was  quite  clear  for  miles,  but  far  away  was  a 
travelling  wrack  of  foaming  cloud  that  looked  like  a  serried 
line  of  mighty  breakers  silently  charging  across  a  shore  of 
starlit  blue.  I  well  recall  this  particular  night,  for  I  was 
greatly  impressed  by  a  sad  sight.  Under  some  coco-palms 
just  below  I  saw  a  light  glimmering  in  one  of  the  natives' 
shed-like  huts,  and  I  heard  native  voices.  Going  down  the 
slope,  I  spoke  to  a  Samoan  who  was  standing  by  the  door,  and 
from  him  I  understood  that  a  native  youth  was  dying.  He 
had  been  ailing  for  some  time  and  had  been  suddenly  taken 
worse.  The  relatives  had  fetched  the  priest,  who  was  kneel- 
ing by  the  bed-mat  giving  the  last  benediction.  I  saw  the 
outline  of  the  sick  boy's  face  and  the  half -conscious  smile  of 
faith  on  his  quivering  lips  ere  he  died.  I  will  draw  a  veil 
over  the  rest,  which  would  make  very  uncheerful  reading. 

The  following  day,  on  our  way  back,  we  met  a  crowd  of 
English  sailors  going  inland.  They  had  several  natives  with 
them  who  had  been  drinking  rather  heavily  down  in  Apia. 
As  we  approached,  the  sailors,  spying  me  and  my  violin, 
shouted  out :  "  Hallo  !  matey,  where  did  you  get  that  hat  ? 
Any  girls  round  these  parts  ?  ",  and  then  all  started  to  do  a 
double  shuffle.  Not  far  off  was  a  small  village,  and  when  I 
offered  to  go  there  with  them  Pompy  and  Tango  jumped 
about  and  laughed  with  delight ;  and  the  eldest  seaman  of 
the  crowd,  the  boatswain,  I  think,  smacked  me  genially  on 
the  back  with  such  force  that  I  looked  up  at  him  a  bit  wildly 
at  first;  but  I  quickly  recovered  as  he  gleefully  gave  me 

114 


BRITISH  SAILORS  ASHORE 

another  nudge  in  the  ribs,  saying,  as  he  winked  with  good 
fellowship  :  "  Don't  kill  me,  youngster." 

As  they  approached  the  village,  loudly  singing  the  latest 
London  hit,  and  emerged  from  the  thickets  of  bamboo,  a 
covey  of  native  boys  and  girls  came  running  down  the  slope, 
from  a  group  of  native  huts,  to  welcome  the  jolly  white  men  : 
two  of  the  wild  crew  were  blowing  their  hardest,  mouth 
organs  at  their  lips,  and  the  eldest,  who  had  goatee  whiskers, 
and  wore  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter  kind  of  seaman's  cap,  sang 
lustily,  with  wide  opened  mouth,  just  behind  them ;  at 
intervals  he  stumbled  slightly  through  being  half-seas-over. 

Sunset  was  fading  on  the  horizon  out  seaward  and  touch- 
ing the  coco-palms  and  the  distant  mountain  range  with 
golden  light  as  the  shadows  fell  over  the  island.  From  the 
hut  doors  the  naked  children  peeped  and  clapped  their 
hands  with  delight.  The  primitive  town  fairly  buzzed  with 
excitement  when,  under  the  palms,  Samoan  maids  whirled 
around,  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  joyful  sailors,  who  made 
the  wild  island  country  echo  to  their  singing  voices.  A 
crowd  of  stalwart  Samoan  men  left  their  work  on  the  banana 
plantation  close  by  and  came  to  watch  the  sailors  ashore. 
Dressed  in  their  ridis  only  they  stood,  with  their  white  teeth 
shining  and  their  eyes  sparkling  merrily  to  see  the  novel 
sight.  The  pretty  Samoan  girls  screamed  with  laughter,  and 
their  long  brown  legs  went  up  and  swung  across  the  grass 
and  fern-carpeted  floor  of  the  primitive  ballroom,  as  they 
twirled  round  and  round  in  the  sailors'  arms,  and  looked 
over  their  brown  shoulders  at  a  corpulent,  fat  native  woman, 
who  hailed  from  the  Solomon  Isles.  For  she  imitated  the 
drunken  boatswain's  high  kicks  and  fell  down,  purposely,  on 
her  heavy  bareness,  to  the  shrieking  delight  of  the  whole 
onlooking  village,  as  I  played  the  fiddle.  "  Birds  of  a  feather 
flock  together  "  is  a  true  saying  ;  and  I  must  confess  I  enjoyed 
myself  seeing  my  countrymen  so  happy. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  village  was  a  native  store,  run  by  a 
half-caste  who  sold  kava  and  terrible  stuff  called  the  "  finest 
whisky."  When  the  first  dance  was  over,  with  their  bashful 
partners  on  their  arms,  dark  eyes  looking  up  admiringly  into 
blue  ones,  they  all  went  across  the  slope  to  get  refreshments. 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

The  sailors  had  money  and  treated  the  natives,  who  were  all 
on  their  own,  for  the  missionaries  were  away  on  the  coast 
somewhere,  attending  a  festival.  So  the  mission  rooms  were 
deserted,  and  the  lotu  songs  unsung  that  night,  and  the 
sailors  were  welcomed  by  them  all  as  missionaries  had  never 
been.  Pompy,  Tango  and  I  followed  the  crew  about  and 
they  treated  us  to  lime-juice  drinks  ;  we  refused  the  whisky. 
When  they  were  all  primed  up  again  with  native  spirit,  and 
the  stars  flashed  over  the  windless  palms,  they  had  another 
dance,  and  six  native  women,  who  did  not  care  a  "  tinker's 
cuss  "  for  anyone  on  earth  when  the  missionaries  were  away, 
stood  opposite  the  sailormen  all  in  a  row,  mimicking  them 
in  a  jig,  the  hibiscus  blossoms  stuck  in  their  thick  hair 
tossing  about. 

The  missionaries  somehow  got  to  hear  of  it  all  and  there 
was  an  awful  row.  Some  of  the  women  were  taken  before 
the  fakali,  or  native  judge,  and  fined  a  dollar,  one  month's 
wages,  and  they  sat  with  shamed  faces  for  hours  in  the 
mission  room,  counting  their  beads  (about  the  only  dress 
they  had  worn  that  night),  doing  penance,  while  the  real 
culprits  went  on  to  their  ship  out  in  the  bay. 

When  we  got  back,  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  old 
Pompo  jumped  off  his  sleeping -mat  and  started  bellowing  at 
his  two  sons  for  overstaying  their  leave.  I  took  all  the 
blame,  and  explained  that  the  old  grandfather,  the  late  high 
chief  Tuloa,  had  been  so  pleased  to  see  us  that  we  had  been 
compelled,  through  sheer  courtesy,  after  his  enthusiastic 
welcome,  to  accept  his  invitation  to  stay  on.  Hearing  this, 
the  old  chap  toned  down,  and  we  went  to  bed  and  slept 
soundly. 

I  went  on  the  tramp  steamer  S next  day  and  applied 

for  a  berth.  The  chief  mate  promised  me  a  job  ;  so  I  went 
back  to  my  friend  the  Samoan's  home  and  stayed  there  till 
the  matter  was  settled. 

Nina,  the  youngest  daughter  of  my  host,  who  was  about 
twelve  years  of  age,  was  an  extremely  pretty  girl,  and  very 
romantic.  A  day  or  two  before  I  left  Samoa  I  came  across 
her  sitting  by  the  shore  holding  a  sea -shell  to  her  ear,  listen- 
ing attentively  to  its  murmur  and  singing  to  herself. 

116 


NINA'S  FAIRY  TALE 

"Why  do  you  listen  to  the  shell's  voice,  Nina?"  I 
asked. 

11  They  are  singing  to  me,"  she  said,  as  she  looked  up  into 
my  face  with  earnest,  wondering  eyes. 

iCWho  is  singing  to  you,  Nina?"  I  responded,  rather 
surprised  at  her  remark  and  the  assurance  in  her  manner 
that  someone  was  singing  to  her  in  the  shell.  Then  I  heard 
from  her  lips  an  example  of  the  poetical  Arabian  Nights  of 
the  South  Seas.  Crossing  her  legs,  she  arranged  her  pretty 
yellow  frock,  then  put  her  finger  up  as  though  to  tell  me  a 
great  secret,  and  as  I  sat  by  her  on  the  rock  she  told  me  the 
following  story  : — "  There  still  lives  an  old  heathen  god  deep 
down  under  the  sea.  His  home  is  a  large  cavern,  so  big  that 
its  roof  is  the  floor  of  all  the  ocean.  In  this  big  cavern  is  a 
beautiful  country,  lit  up  by  the  light  of  all  the  sunsets  that 
have  ever  sunk  down  into  the  great  waters  out  in  the  west. 
For  it  is  in  the  west,  deep  down  in  the  sea,  where  the  old  grey- 
bearded  god's  door  is.  Every  night,  just  as  the  days  are 
going  to  bed,  the  lonely  god  stands  by  his  door,  with  his  big 
watching  eyes  gazing  up  through  the  waters,  as  the  sun 
sinks  slowly  down  into  the  sea.  For  he  knows  it  is  on  the 
sunset  fires  that  he  will  catch  the  shadows  of  dead  Samoan 
sailors  who  have  been  drowned  by  the  upsetting  of  their 
canoes  when  the  great  storms  blow.  For  when  they  die 
their  shadows  swim  away  to  the  sun  directly  it  commences 
to  sink,  and  then,  clinging  to  the  golden  light,  they  go  down, 
down,  and  are  caught  by  the  big  god  as  he  stands  by  his  door 
under  the  sea,  pulling  the  sunset  in  as  a  fisherman  does  his 
nets." 

"  And  what  does  the  god  do  with  them,  Nina  ?  "  I  said, 
as  she  sat  hesitating  and  looking  up  at  me  with  her  pretty 
brown  eyes. 

"  Well,"  she  continued,  as  she  put  her  finger  to  her  lips 
and  dabbled  her  little  brown  feet  in  the  waves  that  crept  up 
the  shore  in  foamy  curls,  "  for  thousands  and  thousands  of 
years  he  has  been  watching  and  catching  the  dead  sailors, 
and  all  those  who  are  drowned  in  the  storms ;  and  as  he  stalks 
along  through  his  wonderful  countries,  his  endless  forests 
under  the  sea,  moving  through  the  light  of  yesterday's  sunsets, 

117 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

all  the  shadows  of  the  dead  sailors  follow  behind  him,  singing, 
and  begging  him  to  catch  also  the  dead  girls  and  women 
who  have  been  drowned.  But  in  a  deep  voice  that  echoes, 
and  is  the  thunder  you  hear  when  the  storms  blow,  he  says  : 
'  Mia  fantoes  '  (my  children),  l  you  must  only  love  me  and 
not  love  mere  women.'  But  still  the  shadows  follow  him,  im- 
ploring and  singing,  '  Oh,  bring  us  the  beautiful  dead  girls 
and  women' ;  and  their  voices,  for  ever  echoing  through  the 
cavern  roof,  come  up  to  the  top  of  the  ocean  shores  and 
caves,  and  you  can  hear  them,  though  they  are  far  away, 
faintly  calling,  calling  to  the  big  god  under  the  sea.  So  all 
the  girls  and  women  come  down  to  the  shore  and,  if  they 
have  no  one  to  love  them,  they  put  the  shells  to  their  ears 
and  listen  to  the  calling  voices  of  the  dead  sailormen." 

"  Do  you  believe  that,  Nina  ?  "  I  said,  as  I  looked  at  her. 

Then  she  nodded  her  pretty  head  with  absolute  conviction ; 
and  I  too  listened  to  the  shell's  murmur  and  pretended  to 
be  astonished  and  convinced.  "Nina,  and  what  becomes 
of  the  dead  girls  who  are  drowned  ?  " 

For  answer  she  looked  up  at  me  sorrowfully  for  a  while, 
then  said  :  "  The  big  sea-god  is  jealous  of  women,  so  he  takes 
them  out  of  his  nets  of  sunset  and  throws  them  back  into  the 
waters,  just  as  a  fisherman  does  with  the  fish  that  are  of  no 
use  to  him." 

"  And  what  becomes  of  them  then,  Nina  ?  " 

"  They  turn  to  ruios  "  (sea-swallows),  "  and  you  can  see 
them  very  early  after  dawn  flying  away  into  the  fire  of  the 
rising  sun,  whence  all  that  is  beautiful  comes  " ;  and  saying 
that  she  looked  up  at  me  with  her  pretty  eyes  staring 
thoughtfully. 

"  Who  told  you  all  those  beautiful  things,  Nina  ?  "  I  said. 

Then  she  looked  up  and  told  me  that  when  she  went  to  see 
her  grandfather,  who  was  that  old  chief,  "  O  Le  Tula,"  he 
told  her  many  wonderful  things  about  the  sea-gods,  and  the 
old  heathen  gods  who  once  lived  in  the  clouds  and  the  forest 
of  Samoa.  So  I  tell  you  that  which  Nina  told  me,  though  I 
could  never  infuse  into  her  beautiful,  simple  story  the  earnest- 
ness of  her  pretty  eyes,  the  note  of  certitude  in  her  innocent 
voice,  or  the  poetry  of  her  childish  imagination. 

118 


DISTRESSED  LOVELINESS 

I  liked  that  little  Samoan  maid.  "Good-bye,  Nina,"  I 
said,  after  bidding  the  others  farewell. 

4  You  go  away  on  te  kaibuke  x  and  never  come  again  ?  " 

"  I  may  come  back  some  day,"  I  answered.  I  saw  the 
tears  in  her  eyes  as  I  left  her.  She's  a  woman  now.  I 
wonder  if  she  remembers  me. 

Before  I  proceed  I  must  relate  an  adventure  I  had  while 
passing  along  a  forest  track  after  playing  at  a  native  dance. 
It  was  a  beautiful  evening  ;  the  coco-palms,  mangroves  and 
dark  orange  and  lime  trees  were  bathed  in  the  sunset's  light, 
and  the  soft  wind  from  seaward  drifted  sweet  scents  to  my 
nostrils.  I  was  hurrying  towards  Apia  town  before  dark 
came  on.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  scream  !  The  knight-errant 
fever  of  other  days  leapt  like  lightning  to  my  eyes  :  a  woman 
was  in  distress.  I  stood  still  and  cursed  inwardly,  for  I  had 
only  my  violin  as  a  weapon.  I  threw  my  shoulders  back, 
looked  swiftly  at  the  skies,  then  rushed  up  to  the  slope's  top. 
A  white  man  stood  under  an  orange-tree ;  in  front  of  him 
was  a  beautiful  Samoan  girl.  lie  seemed  to  be  a  large- 
framed,  well-knit  man,  and  I  felt  a  tiny  thrill  of  hesitation ; 
but  in  the  forest  shadows  just  behind  me  my  old  heroes,  with 
dauntless  eyes,  seemed  to  be  shouting:  "Forward  to  the 
rescue  of  distressed  loveliness — onward  !  " 

The  white  man  had  once  more  gripped  the  native  girl  and 
was  shaking  her.  Her  eyes  looked  around  appealingly. 
The  supreme  moment  to  do  or  die  thrilled  me.  I  dropped 
my  violin-case  and,  longing  for  a  comrade,  with  a  bound  I 
was  on  him  !  For  a  moment  we  wrestled  silently.  "  Ach 
Gott ! "  and  "  D — n !  "  the  villainous  seducer  muttered  as  I 
gripped  him  by  the  throat !  Crash  !  On  my  head  came  a 
blow — the  Samoan  girl  had  struck  me  on  the  back  of  the 
head  with  my  violin-case  !  I  heard  the  fiddle  within  hum 
trr-err-rh,  as  the  four  strings  vibrated  to  the  blow.  They 
were  jealous,  quarrelling  lovers,  and  the  girl,  seeing  that  I 
was  getting  the  better  of  the  German,  had  suddenly  relented. 
I  had  a  thundering  headache  all  night  and  have  never 
rescued  a  woman  since. 

I  saw  an  old  Mataafan  chief  die  of  old  age  in  Saluafata 

1 A  ship. 
119 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

village.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sight,  or  ray  feelings  at  the 
time.  He  lifted  his  aged,  shrivelled  face  from  the  sleeping- 
mat,  whereon  he  died,  and  begged  the  heavens  to  save  him. 
Around  him  wailed  his  children  and  grandchildren  ;  he  was 
well  loved,  for  all  seemed  earnest  in  their  grief.  I  saw  his 
eyelids  close  ;  I  heard  him  murmur  in  Samoan  a  prayer  to  the 
gods  of  old,  for  the  child's  belief  revives  at  death.  His  dying 
frame  tried  to  sit  up  ;  the  tattoo  engraving  on  his  breast,  of 
warriors  and  weapons,  went  out  of  shape  as  his  skin  wrinkled 
in  agony,  and  then  his  eyelids  closed  for  ever.  His  death 
forced  me  to  wonder  on  the  mysterious  cruelty  of  the 
Universe.  Theologies  give  death  a  divine  intention,  but 
that  sight  affected  a  sense  in  my  innermost  soul,  and  death 
did  not  appear  to  me  as  a  boon. 

Soon  after  I  joined  the  ship  in  Apia  harbour.  We  stayed 
in  port  a  few  days,  and  then  I  shipped  on  the  Golden  Horn, 
bound  for  the  Marquesas  Islands.  I  had  been  there  a  year 
or  two  before  and  had  a  fancy  that  I  should  like  to  see  the  old 
spots  once  more.  The  schooner's  crew  were  mostly  Samoans, 
the  cook  being  a  German.  The  skipper,  Alfred  Richardson, 
an  Englishman,  was  not  more  than  thirty  years  of  age.  I 
slept  in  the  cuddy.  The  "  Old  Man  "  took  a  fancy  to  me,  or 
at  least  to  my  violin-playing,  so  he,  the  English  mate  and 
1  had  a  fine  time  together. 

The  weather  was  squally  for  a  week  and  kept  the  crew 
busy,  and  then  a  calm  fell  and  we  hardly  moved.  The  boat 
was  a  splendid  sailer  and  ran  like  a  hound  with  the  yards 
almost  squared.  I  remember  the  beautiful,  calm  nights  as 
the  sails  half  filled  and  flopped  and  the  rigging  rattled.  The 
ocean  about  us  was  drenched  with  mirrored  stars  ;  so  calm 
and  bright  was  the  water  that  we  could  look  over  the  side  and 
see  the  shadow  of  our  ship  and  all  the  silent  heavens  over  it, 
and  the  mirrored,  beautiful  katafa  (frigate-bird)  sail  across 
the  sky  on  silent  wings. 

The  Samoan  sailors  squatted  on  deck  and  sang  weird 
ditties  ;  I  played  the  violin,  and  even  the  skipper  joined  in  in 
good-fellowship.  Sometimes  we  fished  and  caught  bonito, 
a  beautifully  coloured  fish.  Soon  the  wind  sprang  up  again, 
and  we  made  rapid  headway  across  the  wonderful  world  of 

130 


HIVA-OA  AND  SAM  SLICK 

waters.  One  moonlight  night  I  was  standing  on  the  star, 
board  side  thinking,  and  gazing  at  the  sky -lines,  ghostly  bright 
in  the  moonlight  for  miles  around  us,  when  the  great  ocean 
silence  was  broken  by  a  complaining  monotone,  such  as  you 
hear  when  you  place  a  sea-shell  to  your  ear.  I  instinctively 
gazed  over  the  side  and  saw  far  off,  opposite  the  weather  side 
of  the  moonlit  sky-line,  curling  and  tossing  breakers,  where 
liquid  masses  soared  and  dissolved  on  the  coral  reefs  of  an 
enchanted  isle ;  for  enchanted  it  looked  to  me  as  the  tiny 
wind  drifted  us  onward.  Slowly  the  inland  palm- clad 
mountain  ranges  rose,  and  the  groves  of  coco-palms  and  dark- 
leafed  tropical  trees,  and  out  of  the  creeks  and  bay  came 
native  canoes  filled  with  paddling,  singing  savages  !  Pre- 
sently we  saw  their  dusky  faces  as  they  raced  across  the 
moonlit  water,  bringing  their  bargains  of  fruit,  pine-apples, 
wild  bananas  and  corals  ;  and  alas,  two  or  three  of  them, 
who  had  no  wares  to  sell,  were  accompanied  by  their  immoral 
wives ! 

Up  the  side  they  came,  clambering  like  savage  mermen 
out  of  the  ocean  depths.  Their  frizzly,  wet  heads  came  above 
the  rails  and,  puff  !  they  leapt  on  deck  and  pattered  about 
on  naked  feet.  They  were  pleasant,  bright-eyed,  shaggy 
fellows  and  the  world's  greatest  talkers  :  they  jabbered  and 
jabbered  till  sunrise  burst  over  the  ocean,  and  before  us, 
over  the  bows,  half-a-mile  away,  lay  Hiva-oa. 

I  asked  the  skipper  to  give  me  a  long  leave  of  absence 
ashore.  ''  Very  well,  Middleton,  we  are  not  going  for  a  fort- 
night. You  can  go  off ;  and  mind  you  behave  yourself  and 
bring  that  fiddle  back." 

"  All  right,  sir,  and  thank  you,"  I  said  gratefully,  for  he 
really  did  treat  me  as  though  I  were  a  passenger.  I  had  played 
cards  with  him  and  taught  him  melodies  by  ear  on  the  fiddle. 

"  Come  on,  Sam  Slick,"  I  said  to  my  comrade,  who  was  an 
American  fellow  and  came  from  'Frisco.  I  was  reading 
Sam  Slick  the  Clock-maker,  and  so  gave  him  that  name,  for  he 
was  a  kind  of  Slick.  He  was  about  twenty-six  years  old, 
but  as  boyish  as  I  was  ;  a  merry- looking  fellow,  with  a  little 
straw-coloured  moustache,  grey,  kind  eyes,  thin  lips,  good- 
natured  and  determined,  and  his  long  legs  balanced  on 

121 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

enormous  feet.  We  went  off,  and  I  had  not  gone  far  before 
I  met  a  Frenchman  who  had  known  me  on  my  previous 
visit.  I  understood  from  him  that  a  lot  of  the  people  I 
had  been  friendly  with  before  were  still  living  there. 

Slick,  who  had  not  been  to  the  Marquesas  before,  was 
enraptured  with  the  sights  we  saw.  I  made  him  go  up  to 
Turoa  village  and  see  the  natives  en  dishabille.  He  made  a 
splendid  pioneer  forest  breaker,  as  his  boots  crashed  down 
and  levelled  the  jungle  scrub,  and  I  followed  cautiously  in  the 
track  he  left  behind  him.  The  heat  was  terrific  when  we 
arrived,  at  last  emerging  from  the  thick  tropical  scrub  and 
dust  into  the  native  town's  open  space. 

There  was  a  store  erected  by  the  village,  a  new  wooden, 
one-roomed  shed.  We  fairly  steamed  as  we  loosened  our 
shirts  and  stood  drinking  native  toddy,  and  the  little  wind 
blew  through  the  pandanus  and  dark  spreading  palm  leaves 
on  to  our  bare  breasts.  Out  from  their  beehive-shaped  huts 
came  the  Marquesan  girls,  dressed  in  their  undraped  beauty. 
Their  fine  dark  eyes  shone  and  their  somewhat  sensual  lips, 
laughing,  revealed  their  pearl-like  teeth.  The  Marquesan 
girls  are  slightly  darker  skinned  than  the  Samoans,  and  do 
their  hair  very  attractively,  almost  with  a  Parisian  effect. 
Some  of  the  youths  also  bunch  their  hair  up,  and  it  is  im- 
possible at  times  to  tell  the  difference  between  the  youths 
and  the  maids  till  they  stand  in  the  grass  smiling  before 
one,  and  one  sees  the  straight  limbs  of  the  males  and  the 
feminine  curves  of  the  dusky,  smiling  Eves.  Sam  Slick's 
eyes  twinkled  with  curiosity  and  very  evident  pleasure  as 
they  spoke  to  him  in  pidgin -English  and  by  signs.  One 
pretty  girl,  about  fourteen  years  old,  held  her  own  baby  up 
for  our  inspection.  Slick  held  it  in  his  hands.  It  was  not 
much  larger  than  a  green  coco-nut.  Its  skin  was  a  pretty 
red-tinted  brown  colour.  I  held  it  on  one  hand  and,  to  please 
the  admiring  mother,  kissed  its  tiny  bald  head.  Then  all  the 
little  native  children,  who  had  crept  up  to  us  and  were 
watching  our  white  faces  with  childish  interest,  rushed  back 
under  the  forest  palms,  screaming  with  delight.  Off  they 
went  to  tell  the  whole  village  population  that  the  big  white 
man  had  kissed  Temarioa's  fantoe  (child)  on  the  head.  I 

122 


MARQUESAN  MAID  AND  IDOL 

gave  the  girls  a  coin  each,  and  they  clapped  their  hands  and 
said:  "  Yuranah  !  "  x 

Man's  imagination  could  never  picture  a  paradise  to  out- 
rival the  beauty  of  that  Marquesan  village.  But  on  we 
tramped,  and  as  we  turned  up  the  winding  tracks  we  sighted 
the  sea,  and  the  waves  breaking  in  the  hot  sunlight  over  the 
reefs  by  the  palm-clad  shores,  and  far  away  we  saw  the 
masts  of  our  schooner,  the  Golden  Horn.  We  got  hold  of  a 
half-caste,  who  took  us  off  to  the  various  tribal  districts  and 
then  left  us.  In  the  solitude  of  the  bush-land,  sheltered 
by  an  enormous  tree,  we  saw  a  large  wooden  god.  As  we 
approached,  and  our  feet  snapped  the  twigs,  a  frightened 
Marquesan  girl,  who  was  kneeling  before  the  hideous,  one- 
eyed,  grimy  wooden  god,  rose  and  fled  like  a  frightened 
rabbit.  We  saw  her  hair  flying  in  the  wind  over  her  bare 
shoulders  as  she  faded  away  in  the  forest  glooms,  just  look- 
ing over  her  shoulder  once  with  awestruck  eyes  as  she  ran, 
and  then  disappeared ! 

Slick  and  I  were  quite  impressed  by  the  sight  of  the 
running  wild  girl,  and  then  we  stood  and  looked  up  at  the 
heathen  idol.  It  was  about  eight  feet  high,  broad  shouldered, 
and  the  acme  of  ugliness.  It  was  considerably  decayed,  for 
one  eye  was  gone,  and  swarms  of  large  white-bodied  ants  filed 
in  and  out  of  the  curved  wooden  lips.  "  Fancy  praying  to 
that  thing,"  said  Slick.  "  Yes,  seems  strange,"  I  responded. 
My  comrade  caught  hold  of  a  large  bough,  and  standing  a 
little  way  off  swung  it  back ;  and  then  crash !  he  smashed 
the  old  heathen  deity's  head  in  !  Then  we  stood  and  gazed 
upon  it,  and  across  the  forest  silence  came  a  low  wail  of 
anguish,  as  once  more  we  saw  the  heathen  girl  run  across 
a  cleared  patch,  running  so  fast  that  we  could  only  just 
see  the  twinkle  of  her  bare  legs  as  she  fled  in  terrible 
fright  at  seeing  us  crash  her  god's  skull  in,  and  yet  both 
stand  unharmed  ! 

Slick  wasn't  anything  of  a  poet,  or  even  of  a  reflective  tem- 
perament, but  the  silence  of  that  spot,  the  broken  god  and 
the  poor,  terror-stricken  girl  made  him  say  :  "  Well  now,  did 
you  ever,  mate  ! "  ;  while  I  too  looked  round  half  frightened 

1  Thank  you. 
123 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

and  said,  "  No,  I  never  ;  but  I'm  off."  When  I  explained  to 
him  that  the  girl  would  rush  and  tell  some  more  of  her  tribe, 
who  were  Christianised  but  worshipped  idols  on  the  sly,  and 
that  they  would  come  into  the  forest  and  get  their  own  back, 
probably  by  strangling  us  and  serving  us  up  at  the  next 
cannibalistic  feast,  he  too  agreed.  Just  as  we  turned  away, 
and  I  had  carefully  placed  the  god's  eye  in  my  pocket  as 
a  valuable  curio,  we  heard  a  noise  and  looked  over  our 
shoulders.  About  twenty  stalwart  Marquesan  savages  were 
leaping  towards  us,  not  half -a -mile  away  I  I  am  tall,  and  to 
this  day  I  thank  God  that  my  legs  are  long.  I  know  not 
what  my  primitive  ancestors  were,  or  what  deeds  they  were 
capable  of,  or  what  barbarian  strain  they  have  infused  into 
my  blood,  but  I  always  feel  thankful  that  they  gave  me  the 
capacity  for  fast  running  !  I  never  knew  that  Sam  Slick 
could  show  such  swift  movement  either,  as  simultaneously 
we  made  an  unprintable  remark  and  like  two  race -horses, 
chin  by  chin  and  neck  by  neck,  we  bolted  off.  I  had  been 
to  the  Marquesas  before,  and  I  knew  that  the  inland  tribes 
still  nursed  old  cannibalistic  appetites,  and  an  intense  hatred 
for  those  who  hurt  their  gods,  and  that  knowledge  electrified 
my  feet.  Only  the  mechanical  pumping  of  our  breath  could 
be  heard  as  we  raced  across  the  slopes.  Presently  I  saw 
that  I  was  gaining  in  the  flight ;  my  nose  was  moving 
through  space  just  about  one  inch  beyond  Slick's  nose  ! 
The  savages  were  shouting  behind  us  !  I  distinctly  heard 
the  wild,  savage  wails,  and  looking  back  I  saw  their  dark  faces 
coming  through  the  forest  of  palms.  Slick's  face  had  gone 
white  ;  mine,  I  think,  had  turned  ashen-grey  !  The  sound 
of  running  in  the  forest  just  behind  us  grew  louder.  If  we 
did  not  reach  the  village  before  they  overtook  us  we  should 
have  to  fight  for  our  lives.  I  had  by  then  gained  the  courage 
of  resignation,  and  turning  slightly  I  gazed  back  through  the 
great  beads  of  perspiration  dripping  from  my  eyebrows.  I 
told  Slick  to  "  P-p-pp-ick — up — sti-ick — as — you — r-run." 
Each  word  came  out  in  jerks,  for  at  that  time  we  were 
almost  tumbling  down  a  steep  slope.  As  we  rushed  up  the 
next  incline  I  spied  some  stout  branches,  and  together  we 
stooped  and  gripped  one  each.  "  I'm  done,  Slick,"  I 

124 


A  BATTLE  WITH  THE  HEATHENS 

muttered.  "  So  am  I,"  he  breathed  out,  as  we  stood  on  the 
top  of  the  slope  and  entrenched  ourselves  behind  a  lot  of 
bush,  prepared  to  sell  our  lives  dearly.  We  both  felt  nearly 
dead  as  we  leaned  against  each  other  and  prepared  to  give 
battle  to  the  semi-savage  men  who  were  rushing  down  the 
opposite  slope. 

Then  the  strangest  thing  happened,  but  one  which  I  believe 
happens  to  most  men.  When  we  found  that  we  had  to  fight 
a  splendid  delirium  thrilled  us.  We  piled  the  dead  logs  up, 
gripped  our  weapons  and  waited  with  a  grim  feeling  of 
exultation  at  our  hearts  :  we  would  go  down  to  the  festive 
board  game  ! 

Slick  stood  by  my  side,  a  real  brick.  "  Let  'em  come,  the 
brutes,"  he  said.  Up  came  a  stalwart  fellow  and  almost 
leapt  over  our  branch  parapet.  I  lifted  my  club  and  down 
it  came,  crash  !  on  Slick's  head  !  I  shall  never  forget  that 
terrible  miss  of  mine,  or  poor  old  Slick's  cry  as  I  fell,  and  the 
savage  buried  his  teeth  in  my  leg,  while  with  both  my  hands 
clutching  his  hair  I  called  loudly  to  Slick  to  help  me.  Down 
came  my  chum's  club  on  to  the  foe's  shoulder,  and  in  a 
moment  we  had  him  up  bodily  and  between  us  swung  him 
and  hurled  him  over  the  dead  wood ;  and  down  the  slope  he 
went  rolling ! 

All  this  had  only  taken  a  minute  to  happen,  and  the  re- 
maining members  of  the  horde  were  all  standing  at  the 
bottom  of  the  slope  to  see  the  result  of  their  leader's  attack. 
When  we  returned  their  chief  to  them  half  dead  they  stood 
perfectly  still,  hesitating,  and  looking  up  to  us  tried  to  call  a 
truce. 

"  Got  any  tobacco  plug  with  you,  Slick  ?  "  I  said  quickly. 
To  my  delight  my  comrade  pulled  out  two  plugs  of  ship's 
tobacco.  I  broke  it  into  four  pieces  and  holding  it  up  in  my 
hand  I  said,  "  Tobac  !  tobac  !  "  and  made  friendly  signs. 
In  a  moment  the  grim,  savage  faces  of  the  foe  were  lit  up 
with  smiles.  All  the  dusky  lips  grinned  and,  incredible  as 
it  may  seem,  they  came  rushing  up  the  slope  with  out- 
stretched hands.  I  at  once  made  signs  to  them  not  to  come 
too  near,  and  then  called  the  best -natured -looking  one ; 
and,  as  he  came  close  up  to  me,  I  stretched  forth  my  hand  and 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

said  :  "  I  give  you  te  pakea."  *  Then  I  put  a  bit  of  tobacco 
plug  in  his  dark  fingers  and  signed  to  him  that  if  they  all 
went  away  I  would  give  him  a  lot  more.  Upon  which  he  went 
back ;  and  presently  all  his  companions  went  away  up  the 
slope  opposite  us,  and  standing  at  the  top  of  the  hill  watched 
the  truce-bearer  return  to  us  for  the  promised  tobacco. 

"  Don't  you  give  it  him  till  they  go  another  mile  off,"  said 
Slick ;  and  after  parleying  again  we  got  them  out  of  sight, 
and  then,  to  make  doubly  sure,  gave  them  only  half  of  the 
remaining  tobacco.  As  soon  as  the  truce-bearer  went  off 
with  it  to  his  companions  we  took  to  our  heels  and  did  not 
stop  running  till  we  arrived  at  the  village  where  we  had  left 
the  half-caste  guide.  Outside  the  guide's  homestead  we  lay 
and  rested  for  two  or  three  hours  before  we  recovered  from 
our  exertion  in  the  sun,  and  the  fright.  We  told  the  guide 
about  the  idol,  and  he  said  that  if  we  told  the  authorities 
they  would  go  and  arrest  the  Marquesans.  Then  he  asked  us 
if  we  would  be  witnesses  and  not  say  that  he  had  anything 
to  do  with  giving  them  away.  I  at  once  declined,  and  so  did 
Slick  :  we  did  not  want  the  whole  tribe  to  swear  a  vendetta 
and  seek  our  lives. 

We  made  ourselves  comfortable  and  happy  in  the  village. 
Many  of  the  old  chiefs  lolled  about  by  the  huts,  pretty  little 
homes  made  of  twisted  bamboo,  elevated  on  crossed  palm 
stems.  Scarred  with  old  wounds  which  they  had  received 
in  tribalistic  battles,  they  looked  grim,  wonderful  warriors. 
Some  were  tattooed  extensively  and  had  large  hairy  warts 
on  their  cheeks  and  ears.  They  loved  to  talk  of  the  good 
old  days  ere  the  bloated  whites  came  across  the  seas  and  the 
Marquesan  Rome  fell.  Sly  old  native  women,  hideous  and 
wonderful  looking,  peeped  at  us,  then  sighed,  and  went  on 
chewing  their  tobacco  or  betel-nut.  Pretty  girls,  with  hats 
made  of  palm  leaves  and  clad  in  a  mumu  2  trimmed  with 
flowers,  passed  along  the  tracks  that  lead  from  village  to 
village. 

As  we  went  on  after  resting  we  heard  the  confusion  of 
noises  in  the  native  huts.  In  some  the  occupants  were 

1  Tobacco. 

2  A  tappu-cloth  chemise  that  reached  to  the  knees. 

126 


SLICK  AND  I  STOW  AWAY 

singing  happily  and  in  others  shouting  with  hot  rage  in  family 
squabbles.  Often  a  youth  or  a  girl  suddenly  rushed  forth 
from  the  den  door,  flying  for  dear  life,  as  the  old  chief's 
gnarled,  tattooed  face  peered  forth,  ablaze  with  anger  that 
his  own  children  should  dare  argue  with  him  and  say  the 
heathen  gods  were  only  wood  and  stone !  Sometimes 
babies  disappeared  in  a  mysterious  way,  and  the  native 
mothers  wandered  about  the  villages  beating  their  hands 
together  and  wailing  most  mournfully.  Terrible  rumours 
floated  about  in  those  days,  for  some  of  the  old  chiefs  had  a 
taste  for  "  sucking  long  pig  "  :  no  man  who  had  any  respect 
for  his  soul  would  swear  by  it  that  the  grizzly  old  chiefs,  and 
old  concubines,  did  not  sit  by  the  festive  fires  far  away  inland 
and  gnaw  the  bones  of  those  very  missing  children  ! 

Slick  and  I  bathed  in  a  lagoon  and  felt  greatly  refreshed. 
I  rubbed  the  bruise  that  my  club  had  given  him  with  palm- 
oil,  and  though  he  moaned  a  bit  the  lump  soon  went  down. 
Next  day  we  went  to  our  schooner  and  slept  on  board.  The 
skipper  was  away  for  a  week,  so  we  once  more  went  off 
wandering,  and  when  we  returned  to  go  aboard,  to  our 
surprise  the  Golden  Horn  had  gone !  She  had  been  origin- 
ally chartered  to  take  a  cargo  of  tinned  meats  and  food- 
stuffs to  Papeete  and  many  of  the  isles  and  groups  scattered 
about,  and  had  suddenly  received  orders  to  sail.  The 
skipper  had  sent  off  to  try  and  find  us,  and  then  left  word 
that  he  would  probably  be  back  in  three  weeks.  Three  days 
later,  being  stranded,  we  went  aboard  a  trading  steamer  and 
asked  for  a  job.  She  was  bound  for  the  Carolines,  and  then 
across  to  Samoa  and  Tonga.  They  did  not  want  any  hands, 
so  at  dusk,  just  before  she  sailed,  Slick  and  I  went  down  in 
the  hold  and  stowed  away.  They  put  the  hatch  on  about 
ten  minutes  after  we  had  got  below  and  we  were  then 
imprisoned  in  darkness.  We  lay  side  by  side  against  some 
barrels  and  bunches  of  green  bananas  and  unripe  oranges, 
which  are  always  plucked  green  for  cargo  purposes.  We 
had  a  terrible  time  together.  The  days  and  nights  became 
a  blank.  We  lived  on  the  bananas  and  green  orange  juice. 
At  last  in  our  desperation  we  climbed  up  over  the  barrels 
and  thumped  the  decks,  but  no  one  heard  us.  As  we  lay 

127 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

down,  trying  to  sleep,  large  hairy  ship  rats  jumped  at  us 
and  squeaked.  I  struck  at  them  with  my  violin -case  and 
smashed  it,  and  as  I  lay  half  asleep  I  felt  their  soft  snouts 
poke  and  sniff  in  my  ears.  Slick  swore  that  they  were  flying 
rats,  because  they  seemed  everywhere  and  flapped  about. 
We  found  out  after  that  large  island  cockroaches  were  flying 
about  us  and  the  rats  were  leaping  at  them  ! 

Slick  became  as  downhearted  as  I  did,  though  he  was  a 
good  fellow  and  brave  too.  "  I'd  sooner  have  stopped  in 
Hiva-oa  for  years  than  go  through  this,  mate,"  he  said.  One 
night,  when  the  steamer  was  rolling  and  pitching,  I  sat  on 
the  barrel  by  Slick's  side  and  played  the  violin  furiously. 
"  Perhaps  they  will  hear  that,"  I  said.  "  Go  on,  scrape 
the  d — — d  thing,"  said  my  comrade,  and  I  tore  away  at  full 
speed.  "  It's  no  good,  Slick.  It's  blowing  hard.  Can't  you 
feel  her  rolling  ?  We  must  wait  till  it's  calm." 

Next  day,  or  night,  it  was  silent,  and  we  only  heard  the 
screw-shaft  revolving,  so  I  got  the  violin  out  and  started 
scraping  again.  I  must  have  torn  away  for  two  hours. 
Suddenly  a  stream  of  light  flooded  over  us  1  The  man- 
hatch  had  been  lifted  off !  And  the  crew  of  astonished 
sailors,  and  the  skipper,  mate  and  chief  engineer,  were  looking 
down ! 

"  God  d — n  it !  I  wonder  what  next  is  going  to  happen 
on  this  old  packet ! ' '  shouted  the  astonished  skipper.  * '  Come 
up,  you  men."  Slick  went  up  the  iron  ladder  first  and  I 
followed  after,  while  the  chief  mate  looked  grimly  down  at  the 
bare  banana  stems  and  at  heaps  of  green  orange  peel.  They 
had  heard  the  violin  through  the  storm,  during  the  first 
night's  orchestral  appeal  for  help,  and  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  a  ghost  was  aboard.  For,  as  the  mate  told  me 
afterwards,  it  was  only  a  wail  that  sounded  faint  and  far  off 
above  the  storm.  The  skipper  forgave  us  and  we  were 
treated  well — considering  our  sins.  I  was  placed  in  the 
stokehold  and  Slick  was  put  to  coal-trimming.  When  we 
arrived  at  Upolu  (Samoa)  Slick  made  up  his  mind  to  stay 
and  go  off  with  her  to  Honolulu.  I  left.  Nina,  Pompo  and 
all  my  old  native  friends  were  delighted  to  see  me  again,  and 
took  me  straight  off  on  a  fishing  excursion  round  the  coast. 

128 


A  GOOD  COMRADE 

I  never  saw  Slick  again ;  but  if  ever  he  chances  to  gaze 
upon  these  reminiscences  he  will  see  I  have  remembered  him, 
and  still  feel  that  I  could  not  have  found  a  better  comrade 
the  world  over  for  the  escapades  that  we  went  through 
together. 


129 


CHAPTER  XI 

At    Sea — A    Fo'c'sle    Argument — A    Native's   Confession — Sydney 

Harbour 

THERE  was  a  steamer  in  Apia  harbour  and  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  get  a  berth  aboard  her.  I  think  I 
had  only  been  in  Apia  two  days  when  she  got  steam 
up  to  leave  for  Fiji  and  New  South  Wales.  I  berthed  for- 
ward in  the  forecastle.  She  was  a  tramp  steamer  and  carried 
sail  to  help  the  decrepit  engines  and  take  the  vessel  to  port 
when  they  broke  down.  Just  before  we  left  we  took  on  a 
cargo  of  natives  bound  for  somewhere  !  They  were  a  mixed 
lot,  most  of  them  Samoans  or  Malay-Polynesians,  and  among 
them  some  Solomon  Islanders  who  had  arrived  in  Apia  a 
week  before,  waiting  to  be  transhipped.  They  were  berthed 
forward  between  decks.  Most  of  them  were  dressed  in  dead 
men's  clothes,  collected  in  the  South  Sea  Island  morgues, 
after  the  first  occupants  had  no  further  use  for  them  :  dead 
sailors,  beachcombers,  coolies,  suicides ;  indeed  all  the 
derelict  corpses  of  life's  drama  who  lay  in  their  final  resting- 
place  in  the  unvisited  cemeteries  of  the  Pacific  Islands. 

These  natives  were  a  cheerful,  indifferent  lot  of  people — at 
least  when  they  got  over  the  first  pang  of  parting  from  their 
relatives.  But  that  grief  was  soon  over,  for  they  each  be- 
lieved that  they  were  leaving  their  native  isle  to  return  some 
day  with  fortunes  from  the  promised  El  Dorado  :  hope  is  as 
intense  in  natives  of  the  South  Seas  as  it  is  in  white  people. 
Next  day  they  started  to  sing  cheerfully,  and  came  up  on  deck 
in  shoals  to  cadge  from  the  galley,  and  get  the  cook  to  bake 
their  bread-fruit 1  and  yams.  Some  had  their  wives  with 
them,  big  fat  women  with  glittering  eyes.  They  were 
supposed  to  keep  down  below  after  dark,  but  they  came  up 
on  deck  and  went  pattering  by  us  as  we  stood  by  the  fore- 

1  The  name  bread-fruit  is  more  poetical  than  the  flavour  of  the 
fruit,  which  tasted  to  the  writer  like  sweet  turnips. 

130 


INTERESTING  CHARACTERS 

peak  hatchway  smoking  with  the  sailors.  About  three  days 
after  we  left  Apia,  bound  for  Suva  (Fiji),  a  hurricane  came 
on,  and  the  boat  rolled  and  pitched  till  we  thought  she  would 
turn  a  somersault,  or  turn  turtle.  The  natives  between 
decks  were  shut  down  ;  we  heard  their  yells  as  the  mass  of 
clinging  arms  and  bodies  were  hurled  about  as  the  boat 
rolled  and  shipped  seas  over  the  bows. 

At  midday  next  morning  the  wind  suddenly  ceased  and 
the  sun  burst  out.  Only  those  who  had  experienced  the 
howling  chaos  of  mountainous  seas,  blackness  and  wind 
would  have  believed  what  the  weather  had  really  been  a 
few  hours  before. 

The  boatswain  and  the  carpenter  were  interesting  char- 
acters, both  typical  shellbacks  of  the  island  trading  type. 
The  boatswain  looked  like  a  priest :  his  face  was  weather- 
beaten  and  his  nose  twisted  ;  he  had  no  hair  on  his  face,  head 
or  neck,  and  wore  a  cap  to  hide  his  polished  skull.  His  chum 
the  carpenter  fairly  wallowed  in  hair,  had  bristly  eyebrows, 
a  bristly  beard,  head  and  neck,  and  a  vast  moustache  ;  you 
could  only  see  his  fierce,  twinkling  eyes  as  he  sat  arguing  in 
the  forecastle  with  the  boatswain.  Those  two  never  agreed 
on  any  subject,  but  were  inseparable  companions.  The  boat- 
swain, I  believe,  loved  to  be  contradicted  by  his  shipmate, 
and  if  no  sudden  response  was  made  to  any  assertion  he 
might  make,  he  at  once  looked  round  fiercely  and  said  that 
silence  was  equivalent  to  disbelief,  and  they  might  as  well 
call  him  a  liar  and  be  done  with  it. 

I  recall  how  he  sat  by  his  bunk  on  his  sea-chest  and  said  : 
"  Remember  'im  ?  I  should  think  I  does.  Very  old  man. 
He  had  been  a  skipper  on  the  trader  between  the  Samoan 
and  Marquesas  Group ;  a  nice  old  fellow ;  he  was  blind, 
quite  blind  in  both  eyes."  At  this  the  argument  commenced 
immediately,  as  the  carpenter  looked  up  and  said  :  "  Of 
course  he  was  blind  in  both  eyes  ;  he  wouldn't  be  blind  if 
he  could  still  see  with  one  eye,  would  he  ?  "  Then,  as  he 
hammered  at  the  hinge  of  the  sea-chest  he  was  mending, 
the  boatswain  shouted ;  "  Stow  yer  gab,  yer  clever  son 
of  a  nigger,  d — n  yer.  Isn't  a  man  blind  if  he's  blind  in 
his  eye?" 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

44  Course  'e  ain't,  he's  only  lost  one  hye  !  " 

"  Yer  d d  swab  !  To  h with  yer  !  If  'e's  lost  his 

eye,  ain't  'e  blind  in  it  ?  " 

At  this  the  carpenter's  unshaved  face  fairly  steamed  with 
heat  as  he  appealed  to  the  sailor  standing  by  :  "A  man  ain't 
blind  if  he's  lost  'is  one  eye,  is  'e  ?  " 

"  Well,"  slowly  answered  the  sailor  solemnly,  "if  he 
couldn't  see  out  of  the  eye  that  was  blind,  I  should  say 
that  he  was  blind  in  it." 

At  this  the  boatswain  spat  on  the  deck,  the  carpenter 
thrust  his  bearded  chin  forward,  and  they  started  to  bet 
heavily  on  the  matter ;  and  the  Norwegian  cook,  who  had 
come  in  to  see  what  the  shouting  was  about,  wiped  his 
mouth  with  his  dirty  sack  apron  and  said : 

44  Mein  tear  frients,  vich  eye  was  the  mans  vlind  in  ?  " 

44  Yer  son  of  a  German  sea-cook,  I  said  the  man  was  stone 
blind  in  both  eyes,  so,  d — nyer,  he  hadn't  any  eyes  at  all ! " 
roared  the  infuriated  boatswain. 

44  Veil,  now,"  said  the  sea-cook,  as  he  stroked  his  short 
Vandyke  beard  and  looked  astonished,  44  he  vash  not  vlind 
then ;  he  haf  no  eyes  to  be  vlind  in  at  all ;  for  how  cans  a  man 
be  vlind  in  zee  eyes  if  he  haf  no  eyes  ?  " 

The  boatswain  turned  purple,  spluttered  out  44  Yer  God- 

d d  cheeky,"  then  suddenly  lost  his  temper,  made  a  run 

and  pushed  the  cook,  who  nearly  fell  to  the  deck. 

44 1  vill  show  you  vat  a  vlind  eye  is,"  shouted  the  enraged 
Norwegian  sea-cook. 

44  Bear  witness,"  shouted  the  boatswain,  looking  at  the 
sailors  and  members  of  the  black  squad,  who  were  all  stand- 
ing around  to  see  fair  play.  44  The  cook  has  insulted  me  by 
saying  that  a  blind  man  has  no  eyes."  Then  the  Norwegian 
made  a  rush  at  the  old  boatswain.  It  gave  the  whole  crew  a 
lot  of  trouble  to  separate  them.  Then  the  boatswain  cooled 
down  and  said  it  was  his  own  fault  for  not  simply  saying  the 
man  was  blind,  and  saying  nothing  whatever  about  his  eyes 
if  he  hadn't  got  any.  Then  they  all  had  a  drop  of  rum 
together,  and  were  good  friends  till  the  next  argument 
cropped  up  and  they  took  sides  once  more. 

At  other  times  they  would  sit  yarning,  and  as  I  listened, 

132 


THE  OVERSEER'S  STORY 

sitting  on  my  sea-chest,  I  heard  many  terrible  and  in- 
describable things  :  true  enough  too,  I  have  not  the  slightest 
doubt,  but  only  fit  to  be  told  here  after  considerable  prunings 
from  the  facts.  There  was  an  old  Solomon  Island  native  just 
by  us,  down  in  the  fore-peak.  He  was  a  kind  of  overseer, 
and  had  to  look  after  the  natives  in  the  hold,  and  separate 
the  various  tribal  characters  if  they  fought,  which  they  often 
did.  Now  this  overseer  was  a  garrulous  chap,  and  though 
he  was  hideous  enough  it  was  interesting  to  hear  what  he 
said.  He  was  over  fifty  years  of  age,  and  we  gathered  from 
what  he  let  out  that  he  had  eaten  "  long  pig  "  in  his  youth. 
One  calm,  hot  night,  when  the  engines  were  clanking  steadily 
away,  while  the  skipper  walked  the  poop  and  the  steward 
slept,  we  were  all  sitting  in  the  forecastle  ;  some  of  the  sailors 
were  in  their  bunks,  and  a  few  others  smoking  and  playing 
cards  beneath  the  dim  oil-lamp.  The  garrulous  native 
overseer  was  talking  away  for  all  he  was  worth,  when 
suddenly  the  boatswain  leaned  over  his  bunk  and  said : 
"  Shut  up,  yer  son  of  a  cannibal." 

"  Me  no  heathen,  I  good  Christian  man.  Once  long  ago 
I  eat  '  long  pig ' ;  but  since  then  I  have  saved  white  sailor 
from  being  eaten,  and  been  friend  to  white  girl." 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  boatswain,  as  he  pricked  his  ears  up  ;  the 

carpenter  said,  "  Gor  blimey,  you've  eaten "  ;  quickly 

a  sailor  nudged  him,  so  that  we  might  hear  all  about  it, 
and  one  of  the  crew  who  had  been  playing  cards 
shuffled  the  pack  and  said  quietly  :  "  Tell  us  all  about  it." 
The  grim-looking,  half -naked  savage  nodded  his  head  and 
started  off. 

"  Many  years  ago  now  a  terrible  hurricane  was  blowing 
off  the  Solomon  Isle  of  Bourka,  when  the  islanders  suddenly 
sighted  a  full -rigged  sailing-ship  in  distress.  Sunset  blazed 
behind  her,  and  they  could  see  the  torn  sails  and  the  decks 
taking  the  seas  over,  as  she  helplessly  drifted  before  the  gale 
that  was  bringing  her  shoreward.  That  night,  when  the 
stars  were  flashing  through  rifts  in  the  clouds,  which  had 
broken  up  and  left  pools  of  blue  in  the  sky,  they  saw  the  great 
ship  within  a  mile  of  the  shore,  with  walls  of  living  waters 
breaking  over  her.  One  or  two  sailors  were  just  discernible, 

133 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

clinging  to  the  spars  aloft ;  and  then  suddenly  a  mountain  of 
water  rose  and  the  masts  disappeared. 

44  In  the  early  morning  the  natives  gathered  the  bodies  of 
the  dead  sailors  together,  put  them  in  old  salt -beef  ship's 
barrels  and  hid  them  on  the  sands  just  under  the  water  near 
the  shore.  For  the  bloodthirsty  tribe  who  found  them  were 
cannibals.  Four  of  the  crew  were  still  alive — the  boatswain, 
the  chief  mate,  the  cook  and  the  ship's  doctor ;  and  a  girl,  who 
was  the  skipper's  daughter."  The  boatswain  dropped  his 
pipe  on  the  floor,  the  sailors  all  looked  round  and  left  their 
cards,  and  one  or  two  went  phew !  then  listened,  and  the 
half-savage  native  continued  to  this  effect : 

44  They  took  the  four  living  men  up  the  shore  and  put  them 
in  a  cave,  and  hid  them  so  that  a  rival  tribe  they  had  lately 
been  fighting  with  should  not  get  hold  of  them  before  they 
could  eat  them.  The  chief  of  the  tribe  claimed  the  pretty 
white  girl ;  she  was  not  more  than  seventeen  years  old. 
They  took  her  up  to  the  stronghold,  made  a  big  festival  fire 
and  had  a  feast  from  one  of  the  dead  sailors  who  had  been 
washed  ashore. 

44  While  the  whole  tribe  sat  squatting  in  a  circle,  watching 
and  waiting  while  the  flames  of  the  fire  flickered  and  hissed, 
the  white  girl,  tied  to  a  coco-palm  by  the  hands,  looked 
round  at  them  all  with  staring,  frightened  eyes.  Then  the 
hideous  cannibal  chief  caught  hold  of  her  and  told  her  that 
if  she  would  be  his  wife  he  would  save  the  four  white  men 
who  were  alive  in  the  cave.  For  a  while  they  could  not  stop 
her  screaming,  and  then  she  looked  up  at  the  chief  and  said  : 
4  Bring  me  the  white  men  first ' ;  and  he  shook  his  head  and 
said, '  No.'  Later,  when  they  were  eating,  and  dancing  wildly 
round  the  terrible  fire,  another  chief,  of  a  tribe  inland,  came 
suddenly  out  of  the  forest  close  by  and  joined  in  the  feast. 
When  he  saw  the  white  girl  staring,  tied  to  a  palm  just 
behind  them,  he  looked  at  her  longingly,  and  offered  to  buy 
her  from  the  first  chief. 

44 1  was  a  young  man  then,  about  twenty  years  old,  and  I 
had  been  a  servant  off  and  on  to  the  white  missionaries  who 
lived  twenty  miles  away  round  the  coast.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  steal  away  at  daybreak  and  tell  them  about  the 

134 


-LONG    PIG" 

white  girl  and  the  four  sailors  in  the  cave.  For  that  old 
chief  who  had  come  and  tried  to  buy  the  white  girl  was  a 
bloodthirsty  cannibal,  and  he  only  wanted  to  buy  the  girl 
so  that  he  could  eat  her.  It  was  well  known  by  all  the  tribe 
that  he  loved  the  flesh  of  women,  and  would  risk  his  life  to 
eat  a  white  girl's  breasts. 

"  In  the  shadows  by  the  trees  she  still  sat,  with  her  wildly 
staring  eyes,  appealing  to  the  glittering  eyes  of  the  chief  and 
to  dumb  heaven.  Most  of  the  tribe  squatted  or  lay  at  full 
length  round  the  dying  fire,  their  hideous  appetites  satisfied 
and  their  bellies  distended.  I  saw  the  two  powerful  chiefs 
stand  arguing  ;  and  then  the  chief  who  longed  for  the  white 
girl  turned  away  from  the  other  and  looked  with  fierce, 
hungry  eyes  at  the  shivering  girl  a  moment,  ere  his  dark, 
naked  limbs  strode  away  into  the  forest.  My  heart  leapt 
with  joy  as  I  saw  his  big  form  go.  I  felt  that  I  could  now 
easily  save  the  white  girl ;  for  I  knew  that  white  men  were 
brave  and  would  come  directly  I  arrived  before  them  and 
told  them  all  that  had  happened.  Walking  as  near  as  I 
dared  to  the  white  girl,  I  spoke  to  her  in  English.  I  said 
four  words  only  :  4 1  see  white  men.'  I  could  not  see  her 
glance,  as  I  dared  not  look  her  way  ;  for  the  chief  sat  close  by, 
rubbing  his  chin  and  grunting  sleepily.  I  sat  myself  down 
by  a  tree  and  slept,  thinking  to  go  off  and  get  help  before 
the  day  broke.  Suddenly  I  was  awakened  by  a  great  noise 
of  shouting  and  running.  I  jumped  to  my  feet.  The  tribal 
chief  was  lifting  his  war- club  and  dashing  it  to  the  ground 
to  ease  his  terrible  rage ;  and  then  crash !  he  smashed  the 
sentinel's  skull ;  it  cracked  like  an  egg-shell.  The  man  had 
slept  instead  of  watching ;  the  white  girl  had  gone !  At 
first  I  was  delighted,  for  I  thought  she  had  escaped ;  but 
instead  of  that  she  had  been  carried  off  by  the  great  girl- 
eating  chief ! " 

Directly  he  said  that  all  the  forecastle  swallowed  their 

tobacco  smoke  and  said,  "  Well,  I'm "  ;  the  boatswain 

muttered,  "  Holy  heaven  !  "  ;  and  then  one  of  the  sailors  said, 
"How  did  you  know  the  stinking  swine  of  a  chief  had 
her  ?  " 

We  all  somehow  listened  hopefully  ;  for  the  overseer  looked 

135 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

so  earnest,  and  we  did  not  want  to  think  we  were  hearing  the 
truth.  A  yarn  was  all  right,  but  this  made  the  hands  restive 
and  the  eyes  blaze.  However,  he  continued  : 

44  Some  of  the  tribe,  who  were  camping  by  a  lagoon  not 
far  inland,  were  suddenly  awakened  by  an  agonised  scream. 
Looking  through  the  jungle,  they  saw  several  canoes  being 
rapidly  paddled  across  the  moonlit  waters,  and  in  the  fore- 
most canoe  they  recognised  the  feared,  bloodthirsty  cannibal 
chief,  Torao.  He  was  a  giant  of  a  fellow,  nearly  seven  feet 
in  height  and  of  tremendous  girth,  and  so  there  was  no  mis- 
taking him.  He  was  paddling  with  one  arm,  and  held  the 
white  girl  under  the  other  as  you  would  hold  a  strangled 
rabbit." 

"  Lummy  ! "  said  one  sailor  ;  as  one  or  two  others  wiped 
their  perspiring  faces  with  their  red  handkerchiefs,  listening 
as  they  held  on  to  the  stanchion  in  the  middle  of  the 
forecastle,  while  the  tramp  steamer  rolled  and  pitched 
along  across  the  Pacific,  heaving  at  intervals  to  the  heavy 
cross-swell. 

44  Veil,  veil  now,"  muttered  the  Norwegian  cook,  as  he  sat 
on  the  side  of  his  bunk  taking  his  trousers  off.  The  Solomon 
Islander  continued : 

44 1  was  young  then  and  could  run  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
horse,  and,  knowing  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  I  never 
stopped  once  as  I  ran  across  country  and  round  the  coast  for 
miles.  At  length,  about  midday,  I  arrived  at  Tooka  village, 
which  is  on  the  coast,  rushed  up  the  shore  and  thumped  at 
the  door  of  the  first  white  man's  bungalow  that  I  saw.  They 
all  came  rushing  from  their  houses  when  they  heard  what  I 
had  to  say.  Directly  they  heard  all  they  rushed  back  to 
their  homes  and  got  their  guns  and  revolvers,  and  in  no  time 
were  all  astride  on  horseback  galloping  across  the  country. 

44  At  sunset  we  arrived  at  the  village  where  the  caves 
were.  I  was  brave,  for  I  knew  the  white  men  would  protect 
me,  so  I  led  the  way  at  once  to  the  caves  ;  but  we  were  too 
late ;  they  were  deserted  ;  the  sailors  had  been  taken  away. 
At  once  the  leader  of  the  white  men,  who  was  a  big  man  with 
a  heavy  grey  moustache,  shouted  to  me  that  I  should  take 
them  to  the  spot  where  they  had  eaten  the  sailor.  Quickly 

136 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FEET 

I  ran  on  in  front,  and  they  all  came  behind,  their  faces  stern 
and  white-looking.  When  we  reached  the  place  they  said 
nothing,  but  all  quietly  tightened  the  reins  of  the  horses  and 
then,  dismounting,  crept  together  to  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
The  white  man  who  led  them  made  a  terrible  oath  when  they 
all  peeped  through  the  bamboos ;  for  the  savages  had  just 
clubbed  two  of  the  sailors  and  a  great  fire  was  blazing  in  the 
middle  of  the  cleared  patch  by  the  huts  ;  and  not  far  off  from 
the  dead  bodies  stood  the  chief  mate,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
waiting  to  be  clubbed  too.  The  white  men  hesitated  one 
moment,  then  rushed  across  the  cleared  patch,  firing  their 
revolvers.  Several  of  the  natives  fell  dead  as  the  tribe 
scampered  off  into  the  forest.  They  only  saved  the  chief 
mate  out  of  the  four  men  who  had  survived  that  shipwreck. 
They  burnt  the  village  to  the  ground  and  buried  the  bodies 
of  the  boatswain  and  the  cook.  Not  far  from  where  the 
fire  had  been  they  found  some  shrivelled  clothes  and  a  small 
peaked  cap  ;  in  the  pockets  were  some  little  medicine  phials, 
and,  close  by,  the  ship's  doctor's  feet — still  in  his  boots ! 
I  told  them  about  the  ship's  salt -beef  barrels  hidden  under 
the  shore  sand.  They  dug  them  all  up  and  took  the  bodies 
miles  away  and  buried  them.  The  skipper's  daughter  was 
never  heard  of  any  more.  About  two  years  after  that  high 
chief  Torao,  who  stole  the  white  girl,  became  a  Christian, 
and  taught  the  native  children  lotu  songs  in  the  mission 
rooms.  I  went  and  lived  with  the  white  men  at  Tooka  ; 
they  gave  me  good  clothes,  and  I  was  their  servant,  and  found 
them  good  and  kind  masters." 

"  Clear  out  of  this  fo'c'sle,  yer  God-d d  son  of  a 

cannibal !  "  shouted  the  boatswain  directly  the  overseer 
had  finished  ;  and  though  he  had  befriended  our  countrymen 
we  too  felt  a  bit  disgusted,  and  knew  how  the  boatswain  felt 
as  we  looked  up  at  the  thick-lipped  Solomon  Islander's  face. 

The  foregoing  is  as  much  as  I  can  tell  you  of  the  main  facts 
of  the  native's  story.  I  have  left  out  all  the  gruesome 
embellishments  and  the  heart-rending  cruelty  of  the  native's 
description  of  the  white  girl's  grief  in  the  hands  of  the 
cannibal  monsters.  Let  us  hope  it  was  not  true  ;  but  I  must 
admit  many  things  made  my  heart  thump  as  I  listened  to  all 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

that  seemed  too  true.  The  boatswain  and  his  shipmate 
never  argued  over  that  tale.  The  Norwegian  cook  at  last 
pulled  his  trousers  right  off  and  said,  "Veil  now,  it's  too 
terrible  to  tink  of,"  and  swung  his  legs  round  into  his  bunk. 
I  turned  in  also,  just  opposite  him,  and  said  :  "  Let's  keep 
the  lamp  on  ;  I  don't  feel  sleepy  to-night." 

Next  day  we  dropped  anchor  in  Suva  harbour  and  stayed 
there  two  days.  I  had  previously  been  to  the  Fiji  Group 
and  stayed  there  for  a  considerable  time,  having  various 
experiences  with  the  natives  and  traders,  experiences  which 
will  appear  in  the  second  half  of  these  reminiscences. 

The  crew  went  ashore  and  had  a  fly  round,  walked  the 
parade  and  visited  all  the  drinking  establishments.  The 
boatswain  and  his  mate  came  back  arm  in  arm,  arguing 
at  the  top  of  their  voices  ;  they  had  been  drinking  rather 
heavily.  When  they  got  on  board  the  boatswain  sighted 
the  natives  poking  their  heads  out  of  the  fore- peak  hatch- 
way, and,  thinking  of  the  tale  the  overseer  had  told  us,  he 

shouted  at  them,  "  Get  down  below,  yer  d d  cannibals," 

and  then  made  a  rush  for  them.  We  were  obliged  to  hold 
on  to  him  to  keep  him  from  going  down  between  decks.  At 
last  we  got  him  into  his  bunk  ;  but  none  of  us  had  any  sleep, 
for  he  shouted  about  cannibals  all  night  and  swore  that  we 
had  got  thousands  of  them  on  board. 

Next  day,  just  before  we  left  Suva,  a  passenger  came  on 
board.  He  was  an  old  gentleman  with  bristly  eyebrows, 
who  wore  a  monocle.  He  carried  two  large  portmanteaux 
and  came  puffing  up  the  gangway,  and  directly  he  got  on 
deck  he  started  shouting  :  "  Stew-ard !  Stew-ard  !  "  Spy- 
ing the  boatswain  by  the  main  hatch, he  mistook  him  for  the 
steward,  and,  looking  through  his  eyeglass,  said  :  "Where's 
the  saloon  ?  "  At  the  same  time  he  handed  him  the  largest 
of  the  portmanteaux.  With  disgust  wrinkling  his  florid  nut- 
cracker face,  the  boatswain  pointed  forward.  Off  went  the 
old  man,  muttering  something  under  his  breath  about  the 
discourteous  behaviour  of  sailors.  "  Down  there,"  shouted 
the  boatswain,  as  the  passenger  got  up  against  the  fore-peak 
and  called  once  more  :  "  Steward  !  "  Then  down  the  fore- 
peak  he  went.  In  a  few  seconds  we  heard  a  wild  yell,  and  up 

138 


WELCOME  TO  AUSTRALIA ! 

came  the  old  fellow,  hatless,  with  his  face  pallid  with  fright. 
He  had  landed  in  the  middle  of  the  huddled  natives  below. 

"  Help,  help  1  "  he  shouted.  I  told  him  it  was  all  right, 
put  his  hat  on  for  him  and  went  down  quickly  and  fetched  up 
his  portmanteau,  which  he  had  dropped  in  his  fright.  He 
was  "  all  of  a -tremble  "  ;  his  hand  shook  visibly  as  he 
clutched  his  property.  The  German  steward  came  hurrying 
forward  and,  when  he  sighted  the  old  gentleman's  massive 
gold  chain  and  jewelled  fingers,  almost  fell  forward  on  his 
face,  bowing  and  scraping  in  his  apologies. 

When  the  old  fellow  recovered  he  swore  he'd  sue  the 
boatswain,  in  Sydney,  for  damages. 

We  had  a  fairly  fine  passage  across  to  New  South  Wales 
and  in  a  week  sighted  Sydney  Heads. 

We  dropped  anchor  out  in  the  stream,  and  the  old 
passenger  went  off  in  a  tender.  He  had  got  over  his 
adventure,  and  shook  his  umbrella  good-naturedly  at  the 
boatswain,  who  grinned  at  him  over  the  fo'c'sle  head. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  lovely  shores  of  Sydney  harbour 
again.  That  same  night  I  stood  on  deck  and  saw  the 
beautiful  sea-board  city  rising  grandly,  with  her  spires  and 
walls,  as  moonlight  crept  over  the  horizon. 

Sydney  by  night  is  a  sight  that  makes  you  easily  under- 
stand the  Cornstalks'  pride  in  their  beloved  city.  Next  day 
we  berthed  by  Circular  Quay.  It  was  fearfully  hot,  real  dog- 
day  weather.  Hospitality  abounds  in  Sydney,  and  one 
never  need  feel  lonely,  for  on  stepping  on  to  the  wharf  I 
was  once  more  enthusiastically  welcomed  by  an  immense 
crowd  of  mosquitoes  !  We  can  joke  after,  but  I  did  not  see 
life  then  as  I  do  now. 

How  I  recall  it  all,  my  beautiful  youth — aye,  as  a  woman's 
heart  secretly  remembers  her  first  love,  and  gazing  back  feels 
the  old  passion,  sees  the  rosy  horizon  of  dreams,  the  absolute 
certitude  of  old  vows,  spoken  by  that  voice  that  expressed 
all  the  happy  Universe  !  Yes,  so  do  I  remember  the  sleep- 
less, hungry  nights  under  the  stars  that  shone  over  the  trees, 
nights  radiant  with  dreams  ! 


139 


CHAPTER  XII 

Circular  Quay — Figure-heads — A  Derelict's  Night — The  World's 
Worst  Men — Off  to  New  Zealand — A  Violin  Prodigy — In  the 
New  Zealand  Bush — My  Maori  Girl — A  Pied  Piper — A  Recipe 
for  the  Happy  Vagabond — The  Philosophical  Sun-downer 

I  HAD  lived  in  Sydney  five  or  six  years  before,  when  I  had 
run  away  from  a  ship  in  Brisbane  and  had  come  across 
to  Sydney  full  of  dreams  and  hope.  I  was  then  only 
fourteen  years  of  age.  How  vividly  I  recall  those  days  and 
nights. 

Once  more  I  stand  on  old  Circular  Quay  and  seem  again  to 
breathe  through  my  dreams  the  turbulent  poetry  of  emigrant 
sin  and  sorrow  ;  for  ah  !  how  many  cargoes  of  human  lives 
have  been  brought  across  the  world  and  then  dumped  down 
on  the  quay.  I  dream  on,  and  see  the  silent  wool  clipper- ships 
lying  alongside  the  wharfs,  the  tall  masts  and  long  yards 
at  rest  beneath  the  sky.  The  fine  carved  figure-heads  look 
alive,  their  grand,  allegorical  faces  gazing,  their  out- 
stretched arms  pointing,  towards  Sydney's  silent  streets. 
They  seem  to  express  dimly  to  me  some  substance  of  great 
poetic  thought,  as  though  I  stood  on  the  mysterious  shores 
of  the  heaven  whence  those  spiritual  minds  that  conceived 
them  drew  their  inspiration,  when  with  creating  brain  and 
moving  fingers  they  carved  such  sad,  wonderful  faces  ;  faces 
destined  to  be  exiled  for  years  on  voyages  across  wild  oceans. 

I  am  a  boy  again,  and  am  thrilled  with  such  a  feeling  as  a 
poet  has  when  he  treads  visionary  worlds  and  forgets  his  sad 
reality.  How  happy  I  feel  as  I  move  along  in  the  white 
moonlight  from  wharf  to  wharf,  gazing  on  each  wooden  ship 
and  wondering  on  their  past  voyages,  what  seas  they  crossed 
ere  I  was  born,  and  what  the  seaports  looked  like  when  they 
came  sailing  down,  with  weather-beaten  sailors  staring  from 
the  fo'c'sle  head. 

How  distinctly  I  remember  it  all  !  I  cannot  move  from 

140 


CARVED  ROMANCE 

one  ship's  side  :  the  figure-head  is  that  of  some  beautiful 
goddess  with  a  crown  of  bronzed  hair,  wherein  a  dove 
flutters.  Her  face  represents,  exactly,  my  romantic  ideal 
of  all  the  tender  beauty  of  woman  as  I  dreamed  of  it  in 
my  early  boyhood.  It  is  a  beautiful  face.  I  gaze  from  the 
wharf  at  it  with  fascinated  eyes  :  all  is  silent  except  for  the 
plomp  of  the  waters  against  the  ship's  side  as  the  tide  ebbs. 
Still  I  gaze  at  her  praying  hands,  as  with  wide -opened  eyelids 
she  stares  across  the  moonlit  quay  at  the  sleeping  city. 

I  went  back  to  my  room  and  dreamed  of  that  perfect  face. 
So  strangely  was  I  impressed  by  its  beauty  that  I  felt  a  long- 
ing to  find  some  living  type  resembling  it.  The  next  day 
I  walked  up  the  Sydney  streets  and  earnestly  scanned  the 
faces  of  the  Colonial  girls.  None  of  them  seemed  to  me  as 
beautiful  as  the  thought  of  the  artist  who  had  fashioned  the 
perfect  outlines  of  my  figure-head.  The  next  night  I  went 
down  to  the  quay  and  gazed  once  more  at  her,  and  then  again 
the  following  night ;  but  when  I  arrived  on  the  wharf  to  my 
great  sorrow  I  found  her  gone.  She  had  left  her  beauty  in 
my  soul,  and  though  she  was  only  an  insensate  figure-head, 
the  memory  of  her  features  and  expression  stirred  and  fired 
some  devotional  dream  within  me,  and  gave  me  a  poetic 
reverence  for  womanhood,  a  gift  from  out  the  great 
strangeness  of  things,  that  I  have  ever  cherished.  Often  in 
seaports,  on  my  travels  from  land  to  land,  my  comrades 
wondered  why  I  stood  a  moment  and  gazed  at  the  silent 
sailing-ships  by  the  wharf.  But,  though  I  searched,  I  never 
saw  that  figure-head  again.  I  suppose  they  have  broken  those 
old  wooden  ships  up  now  and  burnt  them  on  the  hearth  fires 
of  the  cities,  and  by  them  other  boys  have  probably  dreamed 
of  strange  lands,  and  lovers  gazed  in  the  curling  flames  with 
shining  eyes.  Ah  !  little  did  they  dream  what  their  log  of 
firewood  had  meant  to  me ;  and  while  they  kissed  with  cling- 
ing lips  the  substance  of  my  boyhood  dreams,  those  features 
that  lived  spiritually  in  my  imagination  fell  to  ash  as  the 
flames  faded  in  the  homestead  hearth  fire. 

The  poetry  of  Sydney  harbour,  with  its  sights  and  turmoil 
of  sound,  lives  in  my  memory  as  though  to-day  is  far-off 
yesterday.  I  even  remember,  and  feel  again,  my  strange 

141 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

romantic  loneliness  as  I  watch  the  silent  ships  lying  out  in 
the  bay.  Night,  like  life,  is  on  the  deep,  tide-moving  waters ; 
in  the  dark  depths  the  fixed  mirrored  stars  shine  steadfastly 
like  Eternity,  while  over  them  the  waters  ebb  seaward 
or  flow  towards  the  shore.  The  outline  of  North  Shore, 
like  another  continent,  rises  across  the  wide  harbour,  and 
exactly  opposite  are  the  spires  of  the  grand,  silent,  sea -board 
city.  Some  drunken  sailor's  song  floats  across  the  bay  from 
the  wind-jammer  that  is  lying  at  anchor  out  in  the  stream. 
Several  lights  are  twinkling  across  by  Miller's  Point.  The 
Orient  liner,  the  giant  aristocrat  of  the  quay,  is  agleam  with 
shining  port-holes  ;  her  funnels  belch  forth  smoke  that  ascends 
to  the  silence.  We  creep  by — three  homeless  men  and  a 
boy — looking  for  a  place  to  sleep  !  Our  shadows  suddenly 
hurry  on  with  us,  as  in  the  moon's  gleam  we  spy  the  quarter- 
master on  watch  at  the  gangway.  No  hope  there  for  us,  we 
think,  so  we  go  round  to  the  anchored  ferry-boats  and  leave 
the  great  liner  behind.  She's  off  for  England  to-morrow, 
dear  old  England  !  O  magical  word  to  how  many  exiles 
in  the  sleeping  city,  and  especially  to  us,  with  our  stomachs 
rumbling  with  emptiness.  The  big  Manly  Beach  ferry-boat 
is  moored  by  the  wharf ;  our  frightened  eyes  look  carefully 
around,  then  down  on  board  we  go  to  seek  the  cushioned 
settees  of  the  saloon.  We  slept  there  last  night.  Again  we 
creep  into  the  saloon,  four  of  us  :  Roberts,  the  ship's  stoker, 
villainous -looking,  old,  with  unshaved  face  ;  Ross,  the  son 
of  the  Right  Honourable,  and  the  third  man,  who  is  a  late 
schoolmaster  from  a  school  of  great  distinction.  He  is  a 
pessimistic-looking  chap,  perhaps  because  he  lent  Ross  his 
last  ten  shillings  on  the  promise  of  five  hundred  per  cent, 
interest  when  Ross  got  an  expected  cheque  from  England. 
"  Ah,  woeful  when  1"  The  night  is  getting  old  and  cold  ; 
how  comfortably  the  warmth  of  the  dim  saloon  strikes  us 
as  we  four  derelicts  creep  across.  The  moonlight  is  stream- 
ing through  the  port -holes.  Ross  smothers  a  note  of  irre- 
sistible exultation,  for  he  has  spotted  a  large  bunch  of  bananas 
on  the  saloon  table  !  Such  sudden  unexpected  affluence  is 
too  much  forme,  and  even  as  I  wonder  why  the  saloon  smells 
so  strongly  of  fresh  tobacco  smoke,  I  sit  down  plomp  !  on  the 

142 


DERELICTS 

stomach  of  the  ferry-boat's  night  watchman,  who  is  asleep 
on  the  settee  ! 

A  terrible  yell  of  pain  escapes  the  official's  lips  ;  like  four 
shadows  in  one  headlong  leap  we  cross  the  saloon  and  rush 
up  the  gangway.  How  we  scampered  across  the  quay  space 
and  then  rescued  poor  old  Roberts,  the  stoker,  as  he  puffed 
behind  and  stumbled  on  the  kerb  -side  and  fell  with  a  crash  ! 
Under  the  trees  in  the  domain  he  sat  swearing  terrifically, 
but  calmed  down  as  we  held  his  blood-splashed  face  up 
and  examined  it  by  moonlight.  The  schoolmaster  lent  his 
handkerchief  of  other  days  to  stanch  the  blood -flow.  Ross 
promised  another  fifteen  shillings  when  the  cheque  came. 
Then,  under  the  big -leafed  tree,  with  our  heads  pillowed  on 
our  coats  or  caps,  we  lay  with  our  faces  side  by  side  to  sleep. 
I  can  still  see  the  many  huddled  derelicts  under  the  gum- 
trees  of  Sydney's  Hyde  Park,  disreputable  old  men,  and 
young  men,  good  and  bad.  I  watch  by  my  chums  on  our 
big  bedroom  floor  and  hear  the  far  cry  of  the  wild  animals 
in  the  Botanical  Gardens  Zoo,  and  smell  the  dew-damp  leaves 
and  domain  grass,  as  dawn  steals  over  the  windless  trees 
away  back  beyond  the  horizon  of  more  years  than  I  like  to 
count. 

Some  inexplicable  kind  of  sadness  comes  over  me  as  I  look 
ba  ck  to  the  lost  splendour  of  my  derelict  days.  How  wealthy 
I  was  with  all  my  youthful  unfulfilled  promises,  and  what 
security  I  found  in  the  hopeful,  manly  eyes  of  men  who  went 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  How  I  stuck  to  them  as  they 
yarned  together,  or  sang  till  the  shore  cave  echoed.  The 
shanty  was  a  paradise,  filled  with  men  of  mighty  deeds,  as  I 
gazed  with  the  eyes  of  boyish  inexperience  at  the  stalwart, 
unshaved  men  from  'Frisco  and  London,  and  listened  to  the 
stories  of  sad  self-sacrifice,  or  great  deeds  on  land  and  sea, 
performed  in  the  valiant  imagination  of  those  wonderful 
brains  of  the  world's  worst  men. 

I  often  wonder  what  I  have  missed  through  the  inherited 
taint  of  vagabondage  that  is  in  my  blood.  Should  I  have 
been  happier  and  gained  some  wealth  had  I  gone  ashore  in 
some  far  country,  scorning  vagabonds  and  marching  down 
the  track  on  honest  feet,  like  some  Dick  Whittington,  looking 

143 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

for  the  lights  of  some  distant  city,  with  my  violin  slung 
beside  me  ?  I  doubt  it.  If  one  is  really  honest,  one  is  sure, 
some  day,  to  trust  the  wrong  man  through  not  being  dis- 
honest oneself.  But  to  go  back  to  my  reminiscences  at  the 
moment  when  I  arrived  in  Sydney  from  Samoa. 

I  did  not  stay  in  Sydney  very  long.  I  had  three  or  four 
pounds  in  my  pocket  and  did  not  want  to  get  stranded,  so 
once  more  I  looked  around  and  was  lucky  enough  to  secure 
a  berth  on  a  steamer  that  was  going  to  New  Zealand  for  a 
cargo  of  meat,  and  from  there  to  London.  I  got  a  job  down 
in  the  engine-room  as  a  kind  of  snowman  to  look  after  the 
refrigerators .  The  chief  engineer  was  a  terrible  pig ;  he  was 
a  Dutchman,  and  gave  me  no  peace,  but  made  me  paint  the 
lower -deck  iron  roof.  We  eventually  had  a  fight,  and  I 
received  a  black  eye  which  took  a  considerable  time  to  cure 
itself.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  at  the  first  opportunity. 

I  smelt  the  freshness  of  the  sea -water  and  tar  when  we 
dropped  anchor  in  Oriental  Bay.  After  the  first  old  loafer 
who  is  always  waiting  in  every  Colonial  seaport  to  say 
"  This  is  God's  own  country  "  had  said  it,  I  looked  about. 
Oh  !  the  splendour  of  those  days,  the  glorious  homelessness 
and  the  thrilling  uncertainty  of  everything  !  I  stood  on  the 
wharf  with  my  violin  in  my  hand,  and,  though  I  was  almost 
penniless,  I  felt  like  a  monarch  gazing  on  his  multitude  of 
toiling  subjects.  Ships  of  many  nationalities  lay  alongside 
discharging  their  cargoes,  and  the  crews  mingled  with  the 
crowds  of  embarking  or  disembarking  passengers,  arriving 
from,  or  bound  for,  Australia,  China,  Japan,  India  ;  in  fact 
everywhere  wealth  and  poverty  massed  together.  I  saw  white 
faces,  black  faces,  yellowish  faces,  mahogany  faces  ;  glittering 
eyes,  blue  eyes,  black  eyes,  bilious  eyes ;  Dantesque  profiles, 
turbaned  heads,  thick,  black  lips,  expressing  carelessness 
and  humour,  and  thin,  cynical  lips  ;  also  self-exiled,  broken- 
down,  sardonic-looking  poets,  authors  and  musicians  from 
the  British  Isles.  It  seemed  that  the  drama  of  life  was  being 
enacted  on  that  wharf,  with  its  hubbub  of  uncouth  voices  : 
Hindu  men,  and  women  with  rings  in  their  ears,  multitudes 
from  the  Far  East,  South  and  West.  A  kind  of  miniature 
parade  of  existence,  ere  Time's  hand  swept  the  whole  lot  like 

144 


THE  DRAMA  OF  LIFE 

pawns  off  the  board,  it  seemed  to  me  as  I  watched  them 
embark  on  the  ships  to  go  seaward. 

I  eventually  secured  a  position  as  violinist  in  the  orchestra 
of  the  opera  house  in  Wellington,  and  I  had  comfortable 
diggings  with  an  English  family.  I  think  I  should  have 
settled  down  there,  but,  just  as  I  got  to  like  my  landlady  and 
her  family,  the  old  father  made  up  his  mind  to  go  back  to 
England  again.  This  unsettled  me,  and  I  started  off  on  my 
wanderings  again.  I  got  to  know  a  man  who  hired  concert 
halls.  I  played  at  many  of  his  shows,  performing  Paganini's 
Carnaval  de  Venise,  also  De  Beriot's  and  Spohr's  concertos. 
I  was  received  very  well  indeed,  and  I  should  have  stopped 
on  at  the  game,  but  I  was  very  unfortunate.  I  could  not  live 
on  the  applause  which  I  received  through  being  billed  as 
"  The  Sailor  Violinist."  I  wore  a  cheesecutter  cap,  at  the 
request  of  my  employer,  who  indeed  tried  to  go  on  the  same 
lines  as  in  London,  where  foreign  prodigies  of  twenty,  with 
baby  collars  on,  appear !  I  barely  got  any  wages ;  my 
employer  secured  the  profits. 

I  never  knew  a  man  who  could  promise  so  much  and  give 
so  little  as  that  particular  employer  of  mine  did.  And  what 
he  did  give  he  gave  with  such  an  air  of  munificence,  as  though 
he  was  conferring  a  favour  on  me  that  I  had  never  expected, 
or  earned,  that  for  the  moment  I  was  completely  disarmed 
and  my  protest  died  on  my  lips. 

So  one  day  I  started  off  with  my  violin  "  up  country." 
The  turmoil  of  the  crowded  city  streets,  and  my  commercial 
inability,  had  sickened  me  of  trying  to  do  well.  When  I  got 
on  the  lonely  roads  the  old  knight-errant  fever  gripped  me. 
As  I  stood  on  the  bush  track  I  saw  the  primeval  forest  trees 
all  brightening  in  the  sunlight,  while  singing  winds,  bending 
their  tops,  blew  through  them,  and  wings  glittered  where, 
overhead,  flocks  of  cockatoos  sped  across  the  sky. 

At  midday,  tired  out,  I  came  across  a  small  bush  town. 
It  was  by  a  river  where,  on  the  banks,  Maoris  camped.  I 
stopped  there  only  for  a  day  and  night,  and  I  lodged  with 
two  old  men  who  lived  in  a  small  wooden  house  by  a  paddock. 
They  were  grizzled,  retired  shellbacks,  not  from  the  sea,  but 
from  the  trackless  bush -lands.  I  unfortunately  paid  them 

K  145 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

for  my  lodging  in  advance,  and  they  at  once  bought  some 
rum  and  sat  at  their  little  wooden  bench  table  yarning  away 
till  their  mumbling  voices  seemed  deep  down  in  their  dirty 
beards. 

As  the  rum  fumes  got  more  and  more  to  their  brains  they 
ceased  telling  me  their  experiences,  grew  argumentative,  and, 
with  fierce  eyes,  glared  at  each  other  till  they  fell  asleep  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  next  day  I  heard  from  the 
farmer  who  lived  in  a  shack  just  across  the  flat  that  they 
were  always  drunk,  and  that  the  whole  bush  town  thought 
I  was  some  relative  of  theirs  who  had  come  from  abroad  to 
see  them,  otherwise  they  could  not  think  anyone  would  lodge 
with  them.  Once  more  I  tramped  off,  and  after  doing  about 
ten  miles  I  "  put  up  "  at  a  homestead  in  which  an  Irishman 
and  his  wife  lived.  I  was  getting  short  of  cash  and  was  half 
inclined  to  sleep  out ;  but  though  it  was  very  hot  by  day,  a 
cold  wind  had  blown  for  several  nights.  I  have  quite  for- 
gotten the  name  of  that  little  bush  village,  but  I  easily  recall 
the  picturesque  Maoris  who  lived  by  a  creek  in  their  pah 
(stronghold),  a  beautiful  spot,  sheltered  by  karri-karri  trees. 

I  played  the  violin  to  them ;  and  two  old  Maori  chiefs,  aged 
and  wrinkled,  squatted,  with  delight  beaming  in  their  deep 
eyes,  listening  to  me.  They  were  tattooed  with  dark  blue 
curves  from  their  lips  to  their  eyebrows,  and  some  of  the 
girls  were  also  decorated  with  tattoo.  The  Maori  women 
were  very  cheerful,  and  brought  me  food,  fresh  water,  fish 
and  vegetables.  An  extremely  beautiful  Maori  girl,  dressed 
in  picturesque  Maori  style,  sat  on  the  grass  beside  me  and 
sang  as  I  played  the  violin.  The  surroundings  were  wildly 
romantic,  and  I  must  confess  that  I  almost  fell  in  love  with 
her.  I  kept  thinking  of  her  eyes  as  I  lay  sleeplessly  on  the 
extemporised  bed  that  the  Irishman's  wife  had  made  up  for 
me  in  a  shed  adjoining  their  homestead.  I  went  across  to 
that  pah  several  times  ;  indeed  I  stopped  at  the  Irishman's 
all  the  next  day  and  night.  When  I  went  my  Maori  girl 
bade  me  good-bye,  and  then,  with  some  little  Maori  children, 
she  came  to  see  me  off,  and  crept  by  my  side  along  the  track 
till  the  pah  was  almost  out  of  sight.  Her  eyes  gazed  earnestly 
into  mine  as  she  looked  up  to  me ;  the  wind  fluttered  her 

146 


A  WANDERING  TROUBADOUR 

blue  frock ;  in  her  wealth  of  hair  were  stuck  crimson  and 
white  flowers.  I  seemed  to  live  once  again  in  the  romance 
of  my  faded  dreams  of  boyhood.  How  beautiful  she  looked 
as  sunset  deepened  the  mystery  of  her  eyes.  Gallantly  I 
kissed  her  and  then,  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  waved  my  hand 
back  to  her,  and  she  faded  away,  and  mad  Don  Quixote, 
carrying  his  violin,  faded  away  also. 

Before  it  was  quite  dark  I  sat  down  on  the  bush  grass  and 
played  the  song  she  had  sung  to  me  on  my  violin.  I  half 
wished  I  was  a  Maori  and  lived  in  the  old  days.  I  am  sure  I 
should  have  gone  with  a  tribe  of  warriors  and  attacked  that 
pah  and  ridden  off  into  the  forest  with  that  pretty  Maori 
girl! 

I  slept  out  that  night.  I  did  not  fall  asleep  till  midnight, 
but  I  made  a  small  fire  in  my  forest  bedroom  and  managed 
to  keep  warm ;  for  I  opened  my  violin-case  out  and  with 
some  bush  grass  made  a  good  shelter,  though  the  slight  trade 
wind  on  the  weather-side  blew  cold.  In  the  morning  I  got 
up  without  bother  as  I  had  slept  "  all  standing,"  had 
a  wash  in  the  stream  just  down  by  the  gullies,  and  then 
tramped  across  the  hills  to  where  the  smoke  arose  from  a 
group  of  homesteads.  I  counted  my  money ;  I  hadn't 
much,  I  know ;  but  people  in  the  New  Zealand  bush  proved 
as  generous  to  me  as  I  had  found  them  in  the  Australian 
bush  a  year  or  so  before. 

As  I  emerged  from  under  the  gum-trees  I  saw  that  the 
village  was  a  decent-sized  place  of  some  fifty  houses.  A  main 
road  separated  wooden  shop  buildings,  and  just  behind  were 
the  small  homes  of  the  population.  I  had  slept  late,  and  the 
sun  was  blazing  over  the  forest  trees  and  shining  on  the  tin 
roofs  of  the  township. 

As  I  went  across  the  paddocks  the  cows  lifted  their  heads, 
stared  at  me,  slashed  their  tails  and  moved  off.  I  heard  the 
voices  of  romping  children  running  about  in  the  scrub  of 
their  fenceless  gardens.  Summing  up  my  courage,  I  took  up 
a  position  in  the  centre  of  the  silent  main  street.  Only  one 
or  two  shops  had  their  shutters  down  as  I  stood  erect  and 
started  to  play  the  violin  !  I  was  a  good  player,  and  before 
the  first  strain  of  the  sentimental  operatic  selection  wailed 

147 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

to  a  close  the  doors  of  all  the  shops  and  houses  around  me 
suddenly  opened,  and  out  came  rushing  the  children,  rosy 
girls  and  boys,  and  women  and  men,  who  gazed  at  me  in 
astonishment. 

I  felt  like  some  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin ;  but  the  Mayor  did 
not  turn  blue  "  to  pay  a  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow  with  a 
gipsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow  "  as  I  fiddled  away.  The 
bushmen  and  the  whole  population  grinned,  as  though  with 
one  mouth  of  delight,  and  sunburnt  little  children  rushed 
up  to  me  with  shillings  and  half-crowns  as  I  moved  along 
and  they  scampered  behind  me. 

I  was  well  dressed  ;  my  grey  suit  was  still  new  looking  and 
my  collar  passably  clean.  I  appeared  outwardly  to  have 
a  social  standing  that  outrivalled  that  of  my  delighted 
audience.  The  vagrancy  in  my  blood  made  me  perfectly 
happy ;  and  when  the  old  storekeeper  tapped  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  invited  me  in,  I  accepted  with  alacrity  and 
without  a  blush  the  breakfast  he  gave  me.  The  little 
children's  bonny  brown  faces  looked  in  at  the  open  door  as 
I  ate  like  a  horse ;  then  they  all  screamed  with  delight  as  I 
tossed  the  cat  to  the  wooden  ceiling  and  caught  it  with  one 
hand.  By  midday  I  practically  owned  the  township ;  for 
I  played  in  the  houses  and  the  children  invited  me  to  stop. 
When  I  went  away  and  passed  up  the  track  the  whole 
population  came  to  the  end  of  the  main  street  to  see  me  go  ! 
They  all  waved  their  hands  as  I  faded  along  the  bush  path. 

One  never  forgets  those  few  hours  in  life  when  one  has 
been  really  happy,  and  so  I  have  never  forgotten  that  bush 
township. 

To  the  thousands  of  literary  and  commercial  vagabonds 
living  under  the  guise  of  respectability  I  give  a  recipe — how 
to  be  happy  in  vagabondage.  First,  you  must  have  a  firm 
belief  in  God  and  be  able  to  keep  the  belief  to  yourself.  This 
belief  will  help  you  when  each  great  scheme  unexpectedly 
fails ;  for  if  you  be  a  true  vagabond  your  schemes  will  only 
benefit  others.  Ere  you  go  to  sleep  on  the  grass  look  upon 
the  forest  about  you  as  your  bedroom  ;  examine  the  moon 
as  though  it  were  your  lamp,  trim  it  so  that  the  shadows 
fall  glimmering  through  the  trees  on  to  your  face,  and  keep 


A  VAGABOND'S  PHILOSOPHY 

saying  to  yourself :  "  I  am  better  off  than  anyone  else  ;  the 
world  is  certainly  mine."  In  time  you  will  believe  this,  and 
people  will  see  the  belief  in  your  eyes  and  respect  you.  Be 
kind  to  little  children  you  meet  on  the  tramp,  and  write  on 
your  brain  the  wisdom  they  speak,  for  they  are  the  cheeriest  of 
vagabonds  !  Avoid  luggage,  and  throw  away  your  conscience 
with  all  your  unpaid  bills.  When  you  have  cast  your  socks 
into  the  bush,  place  palm  or  banana  leaves  in  your  boots  as 
substitutes  :  they  are  cool.  I've  walked  for  miles  quite 
happily  in  banana -leaf  socks.  If  you  can  possibly  play  a 
musical  instrument,  well,  take  it  with  you ;  at  the  worst 
you  can  pawn  it.  Never  worry ;  and  when  you  have  no 
money  keep  saying  to  yourself:  "There  was  no  money  in 
the  world  for  millions  of  years  before  money  was  invented." 
Have  plenty  of  tobacco  with  you  ;  and  when  you  sit  under  the 
trees  by  your  camp  fire  recall  pleasant  memories  only  ;  then 
the  birds  will  serenade  you  cheerfully ;  and  if  you  have  a 
good  comrade  by  your  side  you  will  be  as  two  kings,  your 
sentinels  the  stars,  your  domain  extending  to  the  sky-lines 
around  you.  Remember  that  when  beggars  die,  before  they 
put  them  to  bed  they  wash  their  feet  and  place  half-crowns 
on  their  eyelids  so  as  to  keep  them  closed  in  deep  sleep.  If 
they  do  that  for  the  dead,  what  will  they  do  for  the  living  ? 

As  I  tramped  along  the  sun  blazed  down,  and  I  left  the 
track  for  the  shade  of  some  majestic  trees.  Across  the  gullies 
I  saw  a  camp  fire  burning  and  a  man  cooking  food  on  it.  I 
had  run  across  a  New  Zealand  sundowner  ! 

"  Hallo,  matey,  how  goes  it  ?  "  he  said  as  I  approached. 

"  All  right,"  I  answered  cheerfully,  as  he  looked  at  my 
violin  and  then  up  at  me  and  said  :  "  Want  some  tucker  ?  " 
I  accepted  a  lump  of  damper  and,  as  his  old  dog  greeted  me 
affectionately  and  licked  my  hand,  I  sat  down  beside  him. 
We  tramped  along  together  all  that  day  and  slejpt  in  a  gully 
off  the  track.  He  was  an  experienced  bushman,  and  made 
up  two  splendid  soft  mattresses  of  leaves  and  moss,  and  with 
the  dog's  soft  muzzle  crouched  to  the  ground,  its  sentinel 
eyes  agleam  between  us,  we  slept,  and  I  dreamed  of  the 
Maori  girl. 

My  companion  did  not  seem  extremely  gifted,  but  he  was 

149 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

a  philosophical  and  kind  companion  and  never  argued,  only 
listened.  He  had  little  thought  of  the  morrow ;  dead 
yesterday  was  the  land  of  his  dreams,  for  he  was  generally 
retrospective  in  his  conversation.  Nevertheless  he  was 
agreeable,  and  though  I  understood  little  of  what  he  said, 
the  note  of  the  mumble  in  his  beard  sounded  pleasant.  I 
gathered  that  he  had  been  tramping  for  several  years,  and 
was  off  to  see  some  friends  who  lived  up  country  on  a  farm 
of  then"  own.  We  had  a  sad  misfortune  together  :  about  an 
hour  after  we  had  left  a  cattle  yard  that  was  just  off  the 
track,  we  were  tramping  along,  and  the  old  fellow  was 
mumbling,  when  suddenly  his  dog  ran  in  front  of  us  and 
started  to  whimper  and  yelp,  and  then  fell  down.  It  had 
evidently  eaten  something  that  was  poisonous.  Before  sun- 
set it  died  in  great  agony.  My  friend,  indeed  both  of  us, 
were  very  much  upset.  The  poor  dog  had  travelled  with 
him  for  some  years.  Before  it  got  dark  we  went  into  the 
forest  under  the  gum-trees,  and  I  dug  a  hole  at  the  foot  of 
a  large  blue  gum,  then  covered  our  silent  sentinel  over,  as 
possums  leapt  overhead  in  the  trees.  I  did  everything,  for 
my  companion  was  too  upset.  I  also  cut  its  name,  "  Bill," 
on  the  tree  trunk.  He  lent  me  his  knife,  and  when  he  spoke 
his  voice  sounded  husky.  "  I'm  a  bit  of  a  fool,"  he  mumbled. 
4 'No,  you're  not ;  I  understand,"  I  said.  Next  day  I  gave 
him  a  large  tobacco  plug  and  some  money  ;  but  still  he  walked 
along  by  my  side,  looking  in  front  and  never  even  speaking, 
as  the  flocks  of  parakeets  shrieked  across  the  sky. 

We  came  to  a  river  with  rushing  falls,  and  a  lagoon  beside 
it  caused  by  the  overflow  when  torrential  rain  fell  in  the 
mountains,  which  rose  miles  away,  brightening  behind  us  in 
the  sunset.  I  bathed  my  feet  in  the  cool  water.  The  bush- 
man  looked  on,  and  when  I  asked  him  to  bathe  also  he 
mumbled  out  that  he  had  bathed  like  that  once  before  and 
was  afraid.  That  same  evening  we  came  across  a  deserted 
Maori  stronghold.  The  whares  (huts)  were  in  ruins  and 
overgrown.  Where  the  garden  had  once  been,  among  the 
tall  grass  and  crowds  of  everlasting  flowers,  blossoms  like 
vividly  coloured  crimson  and  yellow  parchment,  still  grew 
rock  melons,  tomatoes  and  other  fruit  and  vegetables,  which 

150 


THE  DESERTED  PAH 

the  Maoris  had  cultivated.  The  silent  old  bushman,  to  my 
astonishment,  joined  me  in  my  reflections  as  I  stood  and 
gazed  on  the  relic  of  the  once  prosperous  pah.  "  I  guess  we'll 
camp  here  to-night,  for  it's  not  too  warm  these  times,"  he 
said  ;  and  so  we  went  into  the  one  hut  that  had  withstood  the 
rotting  encroaching  of  time  and  still  had  a  roof  on.  The 
floor  was  carpeted  with  weeds  and  flowers  ;  even  the  hollow 
that  had  served  for  a  fireplace  had  burst  into  bloom  ;  and  as 
my  quiet  old  comrade,  bending  by  the  door,  gathered  dead 
scrub  and  gum  wood  to  make  a  fire  to  boil  the  billy-can 
water,  the  wind  moaned  fitfully  through  the  forest  boughs 
overhead  :  I  fancied  I  heard  the  dead  Maoris'  voices  calling 
and  echoing  in  the  forest  depths,  and  the  laughter  of  girls 
who  were  long  ago  dead.1 

As  the  shadows  closed,  and  sunset  left  a  gleam  out  west- 
ward, we  sat  together.  In  the  corner  of  the  whare  the  sun- 
downer had  made  our  beds,  so  placed  by  the  bushman's 
instinct  that  they  were  completely  sheltered  from  the 
draughty  weather-side.  My  comrade,  who  was  so  methodical 
in  his  habits,  and  had  the  night  before  pulled  his  boots  off 
and  "turned  in"  punctually  at  sunset,  seemed  wakeful  and 
started  talking  to  me.  I  understood  all  he  said,  for  I  had 
got  used  to  his  pronunciation,  odd  though  it  sounded,  owing 
to  his  having  lost  all  his  teeth.  I  had  been  playing  the  violin 
to  him,  and  as  he  sat  intently  listening,  with  his  bearded 
chin  on  his  hands,  I  played  on,  very  pleased  to  find  that  he 
appreciated  music.  First  I  had  played  a  commonplace  jig, 
thinking  that  it  would  appeal  to  his  uncultivated  mind  more 
than  direct  melody.  But  when  I  played  a  melody  from  some 
operatic  selection  he  at  once  lifted  his  half-closed  eyelids  and 
said  approvingly  :  "  That's  right."  I  inwardly  said  to  my- 
self :  "  He's  an  ignorant,  low  old  fellow,  but  there's  some- 
thing in  him  ;  he's  got  feeling  anyway,"  and  I  thought  of  his 
manner  when  I  buried  his  dog.  I  had  been  reading  a  little 
book — I  forget  the  name  of  it — but  it  quoted  the  philos- 
ophers a  good  deal,  and  dealt  in  such  subjects  as  the  human 

1 1  was  told  by  my  comrade  that  it  was  the  ruins  of  a  pah 
stronghold  that  had  been  attacked  by  an  enemy  tribe,  all  of 
the  defenders  having  been  killed. 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

mind  and  the  Universe  as  it  appeared  to  the  senses.  As  I 
looked  up  at  the  stars  I  pondered,  and,  half  in  earnest  and 
half  with  an  idea  of  showing  the  old  bushman  how  clever  I 
was,  I  said,  "All  those  stars  out  there  are  other  worlds" ; 
and  then  I  used  such  phrases  as  ''infinite  extension" — a 
lot  of  high-toned  phrases  that  I  did  not  understand  myself. 
He  listened  silently,  and  that  was  sufficient.  I  felt  that, 
though  he  had  no  imagination,  he  would  look  upon  me  with 
wonder  in  his  eyes  and  think  4t  how  clever  this  youth  is." 
So  I  rattled  on  with  enthusiasm  about  the  vastness  of  things 
and  how,  but  for  man's  consciousness,  there  would  be  no  big 
or  little,  sight,  sound  or  time,  and  how  the  immensity  of 
space  was  a  mighty  ocean  of  nothingness,  a  fungoid  growth, 
wherein  like  jelly-fish  universes  floated  in  the  eternal  waters 
of  darkness,  and  as  they  twirled  and  flashed,  their  sparkles 
were  the  stars  ! 

Still  he  listened  ;  and  with  pride  I  again  delightedly 
attacked  his  profound  inferiority,  striving  to  explain  that 
all  material  and  immaterial  things  were  chimeras  of  the 
mind's  madness,  that  crept  on  shadowy  feet  through  a  vast 
Nothing,  which  was  the  Universe  !  I  told  him  that  he  was 
not  then  listening  to  me  by  the  camp  fire,  but  was  as  the 
image  of  myself,  an  image  that  I  saw  at  that  moment  in  his 
wide-open  eyes,  as  he  suddenly  looked  up  at  me  and  said : 
"  That'll  do  ;  if  there's  nothing,  then  your  opinions,  and  those 
of  all  the  philosophers,  are  nothing  !  "  My  hearing  seemed 
to  have  gone  wrong.  He  mumbled  off  a  Latin  phrase  !  I 
knew  it  was  Latin,  but  that's  about  all  I  did  know.  His 
grey,  deep-set  eyes  looked  steadfastly  at  me.  The  lightning 
rapidity  of  intuition  telegraphed  to  my  brain  a  startling 
message,  which  in  human  speech  would  go  this  way  :  44  Tick  ! 
tick !  your  old  bushman,  whom  you  think  you  are  teaching, 
knows  more  than  you  think  he  does ! "  Two  feelings 
struggled  within  me ;  one  mockingly  laughed  at  my  dis- 
comfiture at  being  such  a  fool,  and  the  other  smiled  with 
pleasure  to  find  my  old  man  was  not  one.  I  quickly  re- 
covered, and  in  my  heart  thanked  the  "  fungoid  universe  " 
that  it  was  dark,  so  that  the  old  man  could  not  see  my  blush 
as  I  dropped  my  pipe  and  groped  for  it  in  the  shadows. 

152 


OLD  MAORI,  SAID  TO  BE  105  YEARS  OLD 


TEACHING  AN  OLD  MAN 

And  then  I  received  another  shock  ;  for  he  quietly  picked  my 
violin  up  and  very  quietly  started  to  play  !  His  fingers  were 
stiff,  and  the  bow  once  slid  over  the  bridge,  but  it  was  very 
evident  that  somewhere,  back  in  the  past,  my  mumbling  old 
bushman  had  been  a  decent  violin -player.  Removing  the 
fiddle  from  the  depths  of  his  dirty  beard,  he  said  quietly  : 
44  That's  a  French -made  fiddle  ;  not  a  bad  tone  either;  you 
can  tell  that  by  the  curve  of  the  back  and  the  shape. 
Savez  ?  "  Then  he  held  it  up  in  the  moonlight  and,  moving 
his  wrinkled  finger  along  the  fine  curves  of  my  violin,  laid  it 
down  beside  me.  "  You've  been  a  good  violin -player  in  your 
time,"  I  replied. 

14  Yes,"  he  said,  and  not  a  word  more  did  I  get  out  of  him, 
except,  as  he  knocked  the  ash  from  his  corn-cob  pipe,  "It's 
getting  late,  chappie"  ;  then  with  a  sigh  he  lay  down  in  the 
corner  on  his  bed  and  almost  immediately  went  off  to  sleep. 
He  snored  vigorously  as  I  lay  beside  him,  quite  sleepless.  I 
looked  at  the  outline  of  his  sleeping  face,  which  I  could  just 
distinguish  by  the  stream  of  moonlight  that  came  through 
the  broken  wall  opposite  us.  Whether  it  was  because  of  my 
just  acquired  knowledge  that  he  was  not  an  uneducated 
derelict  I  don't  know,  but  I  fancied  the  outline  of  his  face 
looked  decidedly  refined,  notwithstanding  the  grey,  unkempt 
beard  and  sweaty  grime. 

Next  morning  we  rose  early,  and  the  bushman  cooked 
the  breakfast  on  a  fire  which  he  built  by  the  deserted 
whare's  door  less  passage  ;  and  as  he  poured  hot  tea  into  a 
mug  from  his  big  billy  can,  and  handed  it  to  me,  he  placed 
in  it  the  last  remaining  bit  of  sugar,  going  without  sugar 
himself. 

I  noticed  this  ;  but  when  I  remonstrated  he  simply  said : 
44  Never  you  mind,  chappie ;  you' re  not  as  hardened  as  I  am." 
I  tried  to  learn  something  of  his  history,  but  to  all  my  inter- 
rogations he  was  either  silent  or  evasive.  One  thing  I  did 
learn,  and  that  was  that  he  was  by  birth  an  Englishman. 
That  same  day,  after  crossing  some  very  rough  but  wildly 
beautiful  country,  we  arrived  at  a  homestead  where  there 
were  several  outhouses  being  built.  It  turned  out  to  be 
my  comrade's  destination.  The  owners  gave  him  a  great 

153 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

welcome,  took  us  both  inside  and  in  no  time  had  a  table  laid 
ready  and  a  good  feed  of  meat  and  pumpkin  for  us.  They 
also  were  emigrant  English  folk.  As  we  sat  at  that  grand 
table  d'hote  a  venerable  old  blind  man,  who  had  been  a  sailor, 
sat  at  the  shanty  door,  secured  from  the  blazing  sun  by 
the  shade  of  the  thickly  clustered  grape  vines,  and  sang : 
"Oh,  ho!  Rio!  We're  bound  for  Rio  Grande." 

He  had  retired,  in  England,  from  the  sea  many  years  before, 
and  was  the  father  of  our  host,  who  had  sent  home  for  him 
and  paid  his  passage  out  to  New  Zealand.  He  was  a  jolly 
old  fellow  and,  though  over  eighty  years  of  age,  danced  a 
hornpipe  and  sang,  in  spite  of  being  quite  blind.  How  his 
white  whiskers  and  red  beak  nose  tossed  as  I  played  the  fiddle 
and  he  shuffled  his  feet  and  sang,  and  the  boys  from  the  next 
homestead,  a  mile  over  the  slopes,  watched  with  delighted 
eyes. 

"  Avast  there !  Turn  to  ! "  he  would  say,  as  he  asked  for  a 
bit  more  of  anything  at  the  table  to  eat ;  and  he  loved  to  say 
that  his  rheumatism  had  given  him  a  twinge  on  his  weather- 
side,  or  on  his  starboard-side  or  his  stern,  as  he  moved  his 
sightless  eyes  about  and  swayed,  as  though  he  walked  a 
rolling  deck,  across  the  shanty  floor. 

The  last  I  saw  of  my  travelling  comrade  the  bushman  was 
when  he  was  sawing  poles  in  two  and  carefully  measuring 
them  with  his  little  rule.  Several  new  outhouses  were  being 
built,  and  his  friends  gave  him  a  job  for  a  few  days.  When 
the  job  was  finished  I  have  no  doubt  he  went  off  once  more 
on  the  track,  with  his  home  on  his  back.  I  never  heard  why 
he  lived  that  life,  or  who  he  had  been  away  back  in  the 
14  has  been  "  past,  but  I  took  good  care  after  my  experience 
with  him  not  to  try  and  talk  philosophy  or  teach  shabby- 
looking  old  men. 

Very  soon  after  I  bade  the  New  Zealand  "  bush-faller  " 
good-bye  I  went  off  visiting  various  townships  with  my 
violin  and  became  a  wandering  troubadour.  I  grew  so  well 
off  that  I  was  able  to  go  on,  devoid  of  all  worries,  and  see  a 
great  deal  of  New  Zealand's  romantic  scenery. 


154 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Matene-Te-Nga— A  "  Bush-faller's  "•  Camp— A  Maori  Village— The 
Canoe  Dance — Song  of  the  Night — Mochau's  Tale — An  Open- 
air  Concert — Violin  Solos — The  Brown -eyed  Girl — Boyhood — 
Onward  to  the  Past ! 

I  VISITED  many  places  during  my  wanderings  in  New 
Zealand,  among  them  the  beautiful  Bay  of  Akaroa, 
and  many  other  romantic  scenes.  The  New  Zealand 
bush  is  wild  and  grand  enough,  and  the  Maoris  deeply  inter- 
ested me.  I  visited  one  aged  Maori  warrior,  called  Matene- 
Te-Nga.  Samoan  tattooing  was  nothing  compared  to  the 
engraving  on  his  big  frame.  He  spoke  English  perfectly, 
but  said  little.  He  had  kind,  deep-set  eyes  and  a  wrinkled 
face  that  was  also  deeply  carved ;  indeed  he  looked  like  a 
stalwart  bit  of  brownish  Greek  sculptural  work,  covered 
with  hieroglyphics,  when  he  moved  with  majestic  precision. 
Curves  of  artistic  tattooing  joined  his  stern,  straight  nose  to 
his  chin  and  upward  to  his  eyebrows.  He  was  the  one  surviv- 
ing warrior  of  a  time  when  New  Zealand  was  a  real  Maori 
land,  when  the  beautiful  legendary  lore  of  to-day  was  poetical 
reality  to  the  land's  original  race.  Matene  had  fought  with 
the  tribes  while  fleets  of  canoes  were  ambushed  in  the  gulf. 

At  Rotorua  too  I  interviewed  Maoris  in  their  native  pah. 
They  wore  but  few  clothes.  The  girls  and  women  had  good- 
looking,  stoical  faces. 

The  Maoris  strongly  resemble  the  islanders  of  the  Samoan 
and  Tongan  Groups  ;  indeed  so  pronounced  is  the  likeness 
that  one  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  two  races  are  allied 
by  blood  ties,  and  probably  drifted  from  New  Zealand  to  the 
Pacific  Isles,  or  vice  versa,  ages  ago.  For  several  weeks  I 
went  off  on  my  wanderings,  accompanied  by  my  beloved 
comrade — my  violin.  I  had  still  a  pound  or  so  in  my 
possession,  which  I  intended  to  keep  for  the  rainy  day  that 
would  be  sure  to  darken  the  blue  sky  of  glorious  vagabond- 
age. So,  while  the  skies  were  bright,  I  made  my  bed  in  the 

155 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

bush,  and  by  the  light  of  the  moon  read  Byron's  Poems.  I 
had  bought  a  paper-covered  edition  of  them  in  Wellington 
and  carried  them  in  my  violin-case.  Oh  !  the  romantic 
splendour  of  those  days  and  nights,  when  I  drank  in  the 
Byronic  atmosphere.  The  glorious  illusion  of  youth,  the 
rosy  glamour  that  is  not  what  it  seems  and  seems  what  it's 
not,  hung  about  me,  as  I  sat  under  the  giant  karri-trees  by 
the  track,  or  approached  the  Maori  stronghold  with  Don 
Juan  sparkling  in  my  eyes. 

On  the  west  coast  ranges,  North  Island,  I  came  across 
a  "  bush-faller's  "  camp.  I  walked  across  the  slope  and  in- 
troduced myself  to  the  solitary  occupant,  an  old  Irishman. 
He  turned  out  to  be  an  interesting  and  congenial  member  of 
the  wandering  species.  His  camp  was  pitched  by  a  creek 
that  led  to  a  lake,  the  banks  of  which  were  surrounded 
by  beautiful  ferns,  eucalyptus  and  trees  covered  with  fiery 
blossoms  musical  with  the  moan  of  bees.  As  we  sat  together 
and  sunset  touched  the  lake  waters  with  fire,  and  primeval 
silence  brooded  over  the  forest,  broken  only  by  the  weird 
note  of  birds,  I  could  easily  have  imagined  that  I  and  my 
comrade  occupied  a  new  continent  alone.  Parakeets  went 
shrieking  across  the  forest  and  over  the  lake ;  we  only  saw 
their  shadows  in  the  still  water  and  heard  the  tuneless 
beaks  scream  as  they  passed  overhead  and  left  a  deeper 
silence  behind.  I  stopped  with  the  "  bush-faller  "  one  night. 
"  Good-bye,  mate,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  up  to  me  with  his 
grateful,  round  blue  eyes  and  placed  my  gift  in  his  pocket. 
He  had  told  me  where  there  was  a  Maori  pah  several  miles 
away,  and  had  come  stumbling  with  me  through  the  under- 
growth for  a  long  way,  to  direct  me  to  the  track  that  led  to 
the  main  road. 

That  same  evening  I  came  across  several  old  whares  by 
a  sheet  of  water,  at  the  foot  of  a  tremendous  range  of  hills 
that  rolled  to  the  southward.  It  was  extremely  hot  weather, 
and,  as  I  followed  the  track  round  by  the  water's  edge,  I  saw 
the  little  Maori  children  paddling  by  the  lake  shores  as  the 
native  women  were  fishing.  On  the  other  side  of  the  lake 
were  several  wooden  homesteads  where  some  whites  lived. 

I  walked  into  the  Maori  village,  and  the  children  stared 

156 


CANOE-PADDLING ! 

stolidly  at  me  as  they  stood  by  the  shed  doors.  Presently  I 
came  across  an  old  Maori  chief  sitting  under  a  mangrove. 
He  looked  very  aged,  possibly  more  so  through  his  face  being 
carved  with  dark  blue  tattoo.  He  spoke  English  well,  and 
as  I  approached  he  welcomed  me  and  said :  "  Play  me  your 
music."  I  at  once  sat  down  by  him  and  began  to  talk.  As 
we  were  speaking  a  crowd  of  Maori  girls  came  round  us,  and 
some  men,  who  wanted  to  hear  me  play  the  violin.  The  old 
chief  took  me  into  his  dwelling.  It  was  strikingly  clean.  I 
saw  his  wife  squatting  in  the  corner,  reading  a  book  printed 
in  the  Maori  language.  She  was  a  very  ugly  old  woman  and 
when  she  smiled  revealed  bare  gums  that  seemed  to  reach  to 
her  ears.  Her  hideousness  intensified  the  youthful  beauty 
of  the  Maori  girls,  who  came  rushing  into  the  pah  while  I  was 
speaking  to  the  old  man.  They  were  beautiful  girls,  with 
the  usual  fine  eyes,  and  a  marvellous  wealth  of  hair  that 
glistened  over  their  bare  shoulders  and  fell  to  their  bosoms. 
The  sight  of  them  reminded  me  of  my  pretty  Maori  girl,  who 
had  long  haunted  my  dreams. 

I  stayed  near  that  settlement  for  several  days  and  attended 
the  rehearsal  of  a  canoe  dance.  The  weird  beauty  of  that 
scene  in  many  ways  recalled  memories  of  the  fantastic  sights 
I  had  seen  in  the  South  Sea  Islands.  One  night,  when  the 
moon  was  shining  over  the  lake  and  forest,  the  Maori  girls 
came  forth  from  the  pah,  attired  in  scanty  robes  of  woven 
grass  and  flowers  reaching  to  their  knees.  Across  the  forest 
patch  in  front  of  the  pah  they  ran  with  bare  feet,  waving  their 
arms  and  singing  a  chant  in  their  native  language.  Then 
lying  down  in  a  row,  prone,  in  the  deep  grass,  they  moved 
their  bodies  and  arms  as  though  to  imitate  canoe-paddling, 
all  the  time  chanting  a  Maori  melody.  It  was  an  unfor- 
gettable sight,  the  moonlight  glimpsing  over  their  bodies 
as  the  night  wind  lifted  their  luxuriant  hair.  They  looked 
like  mermaids  paddling  in  seaweed  at  the  bottom  of  an 
ocean  of  moonlight.  All  the  while  the  Maori  men  gazed 
with  admiring  eyes. 

I  heard  many  Maori  songs.  They  struck  me  as  being  full  of 
a  wild,  poetic  atmosphere  that  suggested  tribal  battles  and 
the  legendary  sadness  of  far-off  deeds  of  passion  and  love. 

157 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

I  give  here  a  few  bars  of  melody  which  may  faintly  express 
my  memory  of  their  music  : 

HUMMING  CHORUS,  or  Whistle,  ad  lib. 

Andante  moderate.  A.  S.  M. 

1st  VOICE.  Espressivo.  , 


VOICE.  1 
(Hum,  with  closed  lips.) 


I  recall  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  New  Zealand  bush, 
the  cry  of  the  melancholy  curlew  in  the  forest  as  I  tramped 
along  the  wild  tracks  to  Rotorua.  I  had  my  violin  with  me, 
and  in  the  strange  perspective  of  memory  I  still  hear  and 
see  the  romping,  sunburnt  bush  children  rushing  out  by 
the  bush  homesteads  to  welcome  the  troubadour  who  had 
suddenly  appeared.  Once  or  twice  I  got  pretty  hard  up 
and  had  to  resort  to  my  violin's  appealing  voice  for  help. 

Not  far  from  a  little  bush  township,  by  a  range  of  hills 
that  rolled  to  the  westward,  I  came  across  another  pah, 
where  my  fiddle  and  I  were  welcomed  by  the  old  Maori  chiefs, 
whose  blinking  eyes  lit  up  their  tattooed  faces.  I  remember 
I  was  warmly  received  by  that  primitive  community.  It 
seemed  hard  to  believe  that  they  were  descendants  of  blood- 
thirsty cannibals  as  I  sat  among  them  and  accompanied 

158 


MAORI  MUSIC 

their  songs,  songs  that  breathed  tenderness  and  poetry. 
The  character  of  their  music  strikingly  resembled  Samoan 
melodies  I  had  heard  sung  by  the  Siva  chorus  girls 
in  the  South  Sea  villages.  The  following  suggests  the 
atmosphere  of  Samoan  or  Maori  music : — 


SONG-   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

(Samoan  Entr'acte.) 


Moderate. 


Composed  by 
A.  S.  M. 


_UV 1  [  'I    I      1—  [--  I  J 

§*-  i  IF   r~ 


Fed. 


Fed. 


i_^_s?L^utfL-I_  :*L_:j 


Fed. 


Fed. 


Fed. 


Sm 

Fed! ' ' *        _! — LJ 


Fed.        #     Fed. 


r^== 


te- 


apiacere. 


etc. 


Reproduced  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  BOOSEY  &  Co.,  London,  W. 

159 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

I  will  tell  you  a  native  fairy  tale,  as  nearly  as  I  can  re- 
member just  as  the  pretty  mouth  of  Mochau,  the  Maori  girl, 
told  it  to  me.  One  evening  she  was  singing  sweetly  while 
I  strummed  a  tinkling  accompaniment  on  my  violin.  The 
shadows  were  falling  over  the  forest  karri-trees  and  across 
the  slanting  roofs  of  the  whares,  and  the  sunset  fire  blazed 
the  lake  waters  until  they  seemed  a  mighty  burnished 
mirror  that  reflected  the  Maori  village,  with  its  sloping 
roofs  and  the  romping  children  on  the  banks.  "  Good-bye, 
Mochau,  I  must  go  home  now,"  I  said  at  last,  and  the  old 
chief,  Mochau' s  father,  looked  up  as  he  squatted  with  his 
back  against  a  tree  and  said,  his  tattooed,  wrinkled  face 
smiling :  "  You  stay  in  pah  till  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  I  replied ;  and  then  Mochau' s  eyes  shone  with 
pleasure,  and  her  bunched  hair  flew  out  in  the  soft  forest 
breeze  as  she  ran  across  the  patch  into  the  whare  to  peel  the 
potatoes  and  boil  corn-cobs  for  supper.  After  supper  the 
kind  old  chief  and  his  pretty  daughter  sat  by  me  on 
the  slope  ;  the  moon  shone  over  the  lake  and  was  reflected 
in  the  still  water,  wherein  the  gum-trees  stood  upside  down 
in  a  shadow  world. 

Sitting  on  the  grass,  with  her  chin  on  her  knees  and  her 
romantic  eyes  staring  straight  in  front  of  her,  Mochau  started 
to  chant  to  herself.  "  Come  on,  Mochau,"  I  said,  "  tell  me 
some  more  fairy  tales."  She  laughed,  then  grew  very 
earnest,  for  she  always  imagined  she  was  the  heroine  of  the 
tales  she  told.  Then,  facing  me  and  looking  into  my  eyes, 
she  began : 

"  Long,  long  ago  out  of  the  sea  rose  the  head  of  a  beautiful 
youth,  Takaroa.  His  eyes  were  two  stars,  which  he  had 
stolen  one  night  out  of  the  sky.  Running  up  the  shore,  he 
looked  on  the  land  and  clapped  his  hands  with  delight  to  see 
the  beautiful  trees  and  all  horahia  te  marino  "  (so  peaceful) ; 
"  and  as  he  stood  looking,  the  water  dripping  from  his  body 
in  the  golden  sunlight,  he  said  :  '  Where  is  she  ?  Where  is 
she  ?  '  Then  all  the  warri  flowers  on  the  big  trees  suddenly 
heard  and  looked  down,  for  they  had  turned  into  the  faces 
of  beautiful  girls,  and  they  opened  their  mouths  and  cried 
together :  4 1  am  she  !  I  am  she  ! '  Then  the  beautiful 

1 60 


HALF  CASTE  MAORI  GIRLS' 


MAORI  LEGEND 

youth  of  the  sea  looked  up  at  them  closely  with  his  wide- 
open  eyes,  and  said  :  '  You  are  not  beautiful  enough,  not 
any  of  you  ;  she  whom  I  love  has  eyes  made  out  of  the  sun- 
sets, and  the  stars  all  shine  in  the  dark  night  of  her  hair ;  so 
go  away,  go  away.'  And  all  these  beautiful  girls  cried  bitterly, 
and  shrank  up  and  were  only  flowers  again.  Then  the  boy 
from  the  sea,  Takaroa,  shouted  once  more  :  '  Where  is  she  ? 
Where  is  she  ?  "  and  all  the  caverns  along  the  shores  and  the 
mountains  echoed  back  sadly  to  him :  '  Where  is  she  ? 
Where  is  she  ? '  Then  Takaroa  lay  on  the  shore  in  the 
deep  grass  and  cried  to  himself  and  fell  asleep. 

44  In  the  morning,  when  the  great  sunrise  was  shining  over 
the  sea,  and  all  the  mountains  inland  were  on  fire  with  golden 
light,  he  was  awake,  and,  jumping  up,  he  lifted  his  hands 
to  the  sky.  '  O  god  of  the  sky,  where  is  she  ?  Where  is 
she  ?  '  And  at  once  a  little  hihi  bird  came  flying  across  the 
forest  sky  and,  sitting  on  the  pohutukawa  tree  just  above 
the  beautiful  youth,  started  to  sing  sweetly  on  its  twig. 
Takaroa  listened,  and  looked  up  and  said :  '  Are  you  my 
love  ?  '  And  the  little  bird  started  at  once  to  swell,  its 
feathers  all  puffed  out,  and  it  grew  and  grew ;  then  lo  !  out 
jumped  a  beautiful  girl ! 

44  Oh,  so  lovely  she  was,"  said  Mochau,  as  she  stopped  and 
looked  at  her  imaged  face  in  the  moonlit  lake  ;  for,  as  I  told 
you,  she  always  would  believe  that  she  was  the  beautiful 
heroine ;  then  she  continued :  "  Her  hair  was  like  the 
tangled  forest  with  the  stars  shining  in  it,  and  her  eyes  more 
beautiful  than  the  sunset.  4  Oh,  oh,  you  are  my  love,  you 
are  my  love ;  sing  to  me,  sing  to  me,3  the  immortal  youth 
said ;  and  side  by  side  they  sang  together.  Then  he  plucked 
a  bamboo  cane  and  made  a  magic  flute,  and  she  sang  and 
danced.  4  Oh,  how  beautiful  you  are,'  he  said  as  he  looked 
upon  her  lovely  body.  And  she  said :  4  Do  you  love  me, 
Takaroa,  or  my  body  ?  '  And  he  said :  4  Oh,  Tamo  mi 
Werie,  I  love  you,  not  your  body,  but  your  beautiful 
eyelight.'  Then  all  day  they  danced  and  sang  together. 

44  Then  night  came,  and  he  made  a  lovely  soft  bed  for  her, 
and  she  lay  down  on  the  grey  moss  and  curled  up  her  warm 
limbs.  The  beautiful  youth  lay  down  beside  her  and  kissed 
L  161 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

her  red  coral  lips  and  said  :  '  Oh,  my  love,  place  your  arms 
round  me.'  And  she  said :  '  I  dare  not,  oh,  I  dare  not.'  But 
still  he  pleaded,  and  he  was  as  beautiful  as  was  his  voice,  so  she 
relented  and  put  her  arms  out  and  sighed ;  and  he  clasped — 
a  little  bird !  Oh !  how  he  cried,  and  cried,  for  in  the 
grey  moss  was  still  the  impression  of  the  beautiful  girl's 
body ;  and  though  the  little  bird  had  flown  away,  he  still 
kept  looking  down  at  the  grey  moss  bed  and  crying  out : 
'  Oh,  come  back  to  me.'  But  the  little  bird  came  not  back, 
and  he  was  alone  with  the  silent  night ;  and  all  around  him 
the  old  giant  trees,  with  gnarled  trunks,  sighed  and  moaned 
in  the  moonlight  with  deep,  windy  voices  as  the  wind  blew 
through  them ;  for  they  were  the  stalwart  warriors,  the  long 
dead  tattooed  chiefs  who  had  once  lived  in  the  world  of  love 
and  grief." 

Then  Mochau  looked  once  more  into  the  lake  water  at 
herself,  and  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes ;  and  the  old  tattooed 
chief's  eyes  blinked  in  the  moonlight  as  we  sat  together  and 
looked  at  each  other.  I  cannot  show  you  the  surrounding 
forest  and  the  deep  stillness  of  the  waters,  or  paint  the 
moon  that  shone  over  the  lake,  or  Mochau  the  Maori  girl's 
romantic  eyes  and  face. 

Presently  Mochau  looked  up  into  her  father's  face  and  said, 
"  Parro,  tell  us  a  tale  also  "  ;  and  immediately  the  old  chief, 
who  longed  to  outrival  his  daughter,  for  the  Maoris  seem  to 
live  chiefly  that  they  may  dream  of  far-off  battles  and  tell 
weird  legends,  began  and  told  me  how  this  world  got  into 
our  Universe. 

"  Before  the  very  beginning  of  things  a  mighty  god  was 
walking  across  the  clouds  in  the  sky.  He  had  not  slept  for 
thousands  and  thousands  of  years.  So  he  put  his  giant  feet 
against  some  stars  that  twinkled  between  his  toes  and, 
with  his  head  pillowed  on  the  roaming  cloud,  sat  and 
rested ;  and  his  shadow  moved  across  the  sky  like  a 
mountain-man  wherever  the  cloud  moved  along,  and 
obscured  the  fixed  stars  in  its  passage.  On  and  on  he 
went  for  thousands  of  years,  resting,  which  to  the  mighty 
god  was  only  like  a  tiny  rest  of  one  minute.  Then  he 
suddenly  said  :  '  Oh,  I  do  feel  tired ' ;  and  as  he  slowly  rose 

162 


PARRO'S  STORY  OF  CREATION 

to  his  feet  and  obscured  all  the  Milky  Way  he  yawned,  and 
lo  !  out  of  his  mouth,  to  the  mighty  god's  own  surprise, 
jumped  thousands  of  tiny  boys  and  girls.  Round  and  round 
the  god  they  swam  in  space,  with  gleaming  eyes  and  laughing 
voices ;  and  then,  suddenly  growing  tired,  they  too  cried : 
4  We  are  tired,  give  us  something  to  sit  upon.'  The  old  god 
sighed,  and  on  his  breath  came  all  the  stars  of  the  lower 
firmament ;  and  he  shed  tears  at  the  thought  that  he  had 
become  sleepy  and  yawned,  and  made  boys  and  girls  come, 
and  those  tears  made  the  great  seas  beneath  him  !  Then,  as 
the  children  cried  again,  the  great  earth  heaved  up  silently 
under  him  also,  and  he  threw  the  moon  into  the  sky.  Still 
the  children  cried  out :  4  Oh,  we  are  so  cold  ! '  So  he  tore  out 
one  of  his  eyes  and  threw  it  into  the  sky,  and  lo  !  the  great 
sun  shone  and  warmed  them  !  Then  they  said  :  4  Oh,  dear 
god,  we  are  hungry.'  And  the  god  sighed  again  and  touched 
a  fleecy  cloud,  and  out  jumped  thousands  of  woolly  sheep  ; 
and  from  his  new  clouds  of  moonlight  he  plucked  bunches  of 
glittering  wings ;  and  birds  soared,  singing  across  the  new  sky. 
Still  they  cried :  4  Oh,  dear  god,  we  want  something  else, 
and  then  something  else.'  And  the  great  god  became  terribly 
fierce  and  shouted  the  thunder ;  then  the  rain  fell !  Still  the 
children  were  unsatisfied,  and  the  god  said  :  4  All  right,  you 
shall  grow  old  and  ugly ' ;  and  when  they  understood  what 
that  meant  they  cried  loudly  to  the  god  for  forgiveness.  So 
he  relented  and  said :  c  Though  you  must  grow  old  and  ugly, 
you  shall  have  little  children  to  take  your  place.'  And  they 
clapped  their  hands  for  joy.  But  still  they  were  unsatisfied ; 
and  he  got  fierce  again  and  said  :  '  You  shall  fall  asleep,  and 
your  bodies  turn  to  flowers,  and  trees,  and  dust.'  And  then 
at  last  they  felt  a  little  more  satisfied  ;  because,  when  they 
found  that  they  had  to  leave  the  beautiful  world  for  ever, 
the  stars,  the  flowers,  the  trees,  the  ocean  and  the  sunsets 
became  sad  and  seemed  more  beautiful  to  look  upon  :  and 
so  the  first  old  Maori  men  and  women  got  very  ugly  and  crept 
into  the  earth  to  die  quite  satisfied  !  "  Thus  finishing,  the 
old  chief  licked  his  dry  lips  and  sang  me  a  chant,  as  he  lived 
on  in  some  past  age ;  and  Mochau  looked  at  him  tenderly 
and  sang  softly  with  him.  They  looked  like  two  children 

163 ' 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

together,  and  not  father  and  daughter  at  all.  They  lived 
in  a  dreamland  and  cared  for  nothing  else,  for  they  lived 
within  themselves. 

Eventually  I  bade  the  Maori  world  farewell,  and  arrived  at 
Christchurch,  where  I  was  forced  to  stay  for  two  or  three 
weeks,  for  whilst  gazing  at  a  derrick  that  was  hauling 
up  a  huge  coping-stone  I  slipped  and  sprained  my  ankle, 
and  was  laid  up  for  a  week,  and  thereby  got  into  low  water. 

In  the  house  in  which  I  was  lodging  there  was  also  staying 
a  retired  actor,  who  was,  like  me,  in  extremis  through  the 
lack  of  the  essential  wherewithal.  This  old  actor  was  an 
amusing  man,  always  cheerful  and  a  good  companion.  He 
was  a  man  of  about  sixty  years  of  age  ;  and  when  I  sat  on  the 
side  of  my  bed  and  played  my  violin  to  him  one  evening  his 
eyes  gleamed  with  intense  pleasure.  "  Bravo,  youngster  !  " 
he  said,  and  in  his  extreme  delight  his  clean-shaved  face 
wrinkled  up  with  happy  thought.  "  Fancy  you  talking 
about  being  hard  up  when  you  can  play  the  fiddle  like  that." 
Immediately  he  unfolded  a  plan,  which  was  to  give  concerts 
in  public  without  any  preliminary  expenses ;  in  common 
parlance,  we  agreed  on  the  spot  to  go  "  buskin." 

The  idea  of  playing  in  the  streets  of  a  city  was  not  con- 
genial. It  lacked  all  the  romantic  troubadour  element  of 
my  previous  experiences  in  the  little  bush  towns  up  country. 
But  nevertheless  my  companion's  cheerfulness  and  optimism 
gave  me  courage.  He  had  a  remarkably  good  voice,  and  in 
our  room  we  rehearsed  all  the  songs  that  he  knew.  Together 
next  night,  with  our  wild  harps  slung  behind  us,  we  sallied 
forth.  My  comrade  had  brushed  his  antiquated  tall  hat  up 
till  it  shone  with  renewed  prosperity.  He  had  also  cut  out 
of  paper  a  pair  of  new  white  cuffs,  for  he  had  a  great  belief 
in  looking  respectable.  "  My  boy,"  he  said,  "  we  must  let 
them  see  that  we  are  not  allied  in  any  way  to  common 
plebeian  street  players.  How  do  I  look  ?  "  Then  he  gazed 
at  himself  in  our  looking-glass  with  pride,  while  I  told  him 
that  he  looked  the  last  kind  of  man  to  be  singing  in  the  street. 
I  meant  what  I  said  too,  for  he  had  a  very  distinguished  look, 
and  his  speech  had  the  intonation  of  bygone  polish  in  it. 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  by  the  kerb-side,  we  started  the 

164 


HAMLET! 

first  open-air  concert.  It  was  after  dark,  and  the  well-lit 
street  was  thronged  with  people,  who  generously  dropped 
coins  into  my  partner's  tall  hat ;  for  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
singing  he  went  into  the  crowd,  as  I  played  on.  Whether  it 
was  my  comrade's  melodious  voice,  or  my  violin-playing,  or 
our  respectable  appearance,  I  know  not,  but  I  was  astounded 
at  the  money  he  collected.  After  each  "  pitch  "  we  retired 
into  a  bar  and  counted  out  the  proceeds  and  shared  alike. 

My  comrade  smacked  me  on  the  back  with  delight  as  he 
continually  had  another  drink.  "  Don't  you  think  we  had 
better  finish  now  ?  "  I  said,  as  I  noticed  that  he  was  getting 
a  bit  excited ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  At  the 
next  pitch,  by  the  arcade,  he  started  to  shout  out,  going 
through  his  old  parts ;  he  even  opened  his  mouth  and  went 
through  Hamlet !  The  vast  crowd  that  collected  to  watch 
his  antics  stopped  the  traffic,  and  the  police  moved  him  on. 
'  We  had  better  get  off,"  I  said  to  him,  and  to  my  great 
relief  he  agreed. 

Just  as  we  were  turning  a  corner  an  aristocratic-looking 
old  gentleman  came  up  to  us  and,  touching  me  on  the  back 
and  saying,  "  You  play  the  violin  rather  well  for  the  streets," 
got  into  conversation  with  us.  He  invited  us  up  to  his 
residence,  where  we  had  a  good  supper,  and  my  friend  enter- 
tained our  host  with  reminiscences  of  better  days.  We  were 
invited  to  stay  the  night,  and  left  next  morning  as  respected 
guests.  I  did  not  go  out  with  my  friend  any  more,  but  at 
once  sought  for  a  post. 

I  eventually  secured  a  good  orchestral  job  as  violinist.  I 
also  got  into  "  society,"  and  played  drawing-room  solos  at  a 
residence  where  the  hostess  was  a  person  of  very  high  stand- 
ing in  Christchurch.  One  day  while  I  was  playing  a  violin 
solo  to  her  daughters  in  the  drawing-room  the  door  suddenly 
opened  and  a  loud-voiced  lady  swept  into  the  room,  bring- 
ing a  pungent  odour  of  scent  with  her.  She  looked  at  me 
hard  for  a  moment,  then  put  on  her  pince-nez  and  once  more 
surveyed  me  critically,  saying  :  "  Dear  me,  how  you  do 
resemble  the  young  man  who  was  playing  a  violin  in  Queen 
Street  with  another  awful  man  !  "  I  do  not  recommend 
violinists  to  go  "  buskin  "  if  they  can  do  better  and  wish 

165 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

to  rise  from  the  vagabond  state.  If  they  do  they  will  be 
recognised  long  after  they  have  forgotten  the  incident 
themselves. 

To  have  even  your  ability  recognised  is  sometimes  dis- 
tressing. I  remember  being  awarded  the  first  prize  in  an 
amateur  violin  solo  competition  at  Bathurst,  in  New  South 
Wales.  I  played  Paganini's  Le  Streghe  and  his  violin  concerto 
in  D.  I  was  awarded  the  first  prize  by  the  adjudicator; 
then  someone  recognised  me  as  a  professional  and  I  was 
immediately  disqualified.  I  remonstrated,  but  an  old  pro- 
gramme was  produced,  whereon  it  was  stated  that  I  had 
been  special  Court  violinist  to  the  kings,  queens  and  high 
chiefs  of  the  South  Sea  Islands !  I  think  that  is  the  only 
time  in  my  career  that  my  position  as  first  violinist  and  com- 
poser to  royalty  has  ever  been  recognised  !  also  the  only 
occasion  when  the  musical  and  critical  ability  of  the  royal 
houses  of  the  Southern  Seas,  through  choosing  me  as  their 
Court  violinist,  has  ever  been  acknowledged. 

Many  things  happened  during  my  New  Zealand  wander- 
ings, and  one  incident  stands  out  in  stronger,  yet  sadder, 
relief  than  many  of  the  others  as  I  dive  and  grope  back, 
deep  down  in  the  silent  waters  for  my  dead  sea  fruit. 

You  will  admit,  I  am  sure,  that  I  have  not  gone  into 
rhapsodies  over  my  virtues,  but  verily  I  believe  the  worst 
of  us  are  better  than  we  seem  ! 

One  day  I  was  resting  against  a  tree  by  the  track.  I  was 
on  my  way  to  Wellington,  to  reply  personally  to  an  adver- 
tisement that  offered  a  good  salary  to  a  violin  dance  player. 
It  was  a  long,  weary  road  and  I  was  very  tired,  but  happy, 
for  I  had  about  a  sovereign  in  my  possession.  I  had  been 
reading  my  Byron  and  Keats' s  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  to  which 
I  had  written  music,  notwithstanding  that  the  ode  was  the 
utterance  of  music  itself,  for  when  we  are  young  we  rush 
forward  to  paint  the  cheeks  of  the  gods  and  teach  wise 
old  "  bush-fallers  "  philosophy.  I  was  feeling  lonely  and 
poetical,  which,  in  the  worldly  sense,  means  slightly  insane. 
The  world  seemed  to  have  a  glamour  of  poetry  about  it 
after  all.  The  grandeur  of  the  sombre  forest  bush  seemed 
a  part  of  me  as  the  old  gnarled  giant  trees  stood  silently  in 

166 


ON  THE  FOREST  TRACK 

the  gloom,  like  wise  old  friends  staring  at  me,  who  would 
protect  my  homelessness  if  they  could.  The  sun  was  blazing 
hot,  and,  just  as  I  was  thinking  that  I  only  had  the  silent 
butterflies  for  companions  in  a  magic  world  of  bright  flowers 
and  wise  old  trees,  a  tired-looking  girl  came  round  the  bend 
of  the  track.  As  she  was  passing  me  she  looked  quietly  into 
my  face  and  smiled.  I  had  never  seen  her  before,  so  you 
may  guess  a  good  deal  about  that  smile,  and  not  be  far 
wrong  in  thinking  that  Mrs  Grundy's  unprivate  opinion  is 
a  correct  one. 

It  was  a  wan  smile,  and  as  weary  looking  as  the  feet  of 
the  owner  of  the  smile  as  they  dragged  along  the  dusty  bush 
track  as  though  they  cared  not  where  they  led  the  wretched 
body.  I  looked  up  and  returned  the  smile,  for  the  eyes  of  the 
girl  were  brown  and  earnest-looking.  She  came  straight  up 
at  once  and  sat  down  beside  me  !  "  I  suppose  you  haven't 
a  shilling  or  so  to  spare,  sir  ?  " 

I  looked  at  her  kindly,  I  am  sure,  and,  with  the  quick 
intuition  of  her  sex,  her  manner  immediately  changed.  She 
saw  that  I  returned  the  smile  in  a  spirit  of  woeful  fellowship 
only.  She  was  a  good-looking  girl,  about  twenty-four,  two 
or  three  years  older  than  I.  Her  hair  was  glossy  and  thick, 
and  to  this  day  I  remember  her  fine  brow  and  the  look  that 
lighted  up  her  face.  She  had  a  pretty,  yet  weak,  mouth, 
but  the  star  shone  on  the  dim  horizons  of  her  eyes.  As 
she  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  me,  I  got  up  and  said: 
"  I'm  off ;  I've  got  to  get  to  Wellington  "  ;  and  away  we  went 
along  the  track  side  by  side.  I  asked  her  a  lot  of  ques- 
tions about  herself  and  she  answered  me  truthfully,  telling 
me  that  she  was  a  three-quarter  caste  Maori  girl.  I  should 
never  have  noticed  it  if  she  had  not  told  me  so.  Her  father 
was  an  engineer  and  had  been  killed  in  an  accident,  and  her 
mother  had  taken  to  drink  and  gone  to  the  devil.  I  saw  by 
her  manner  and  by  all  she  said  that  she  wanted  to  impress  me 
with  the  disadvantages  she  had  had  in  her  brief  career  ;  also 
that  she  regretted  that  first  familiar  tell-tale  smile.  I  looked 
much  older  than  I  was,  for  I  was  tall,  well  made,  with  thick 
bronzed  hair,  grey  eyes  and  sensitive,  curved  nostrils  and 
lips.  Indeed  I  possessed  all  those  physiological  defects  that 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

have  made  me  what  I  am !  For  to  get  on  in  this  world  one 
should  have  square  nostrils  and  a  protruding,  bull-dog  jaw, 
and  eyes  with  a  mental  squint  that  can  scan  north,  south 
east  and  west  of  one's  world  of  prospects  all  at  once. 

Yet  I  was  happy  enough,  untrammelled,  and  out  of  the 
grip  of  conventionality — that  relentless  old  man  of  the  sea 
could  not  cling  to  me.  My  soul  roamed  at  will,  like  a  rider- 
less wild  horse,  across  the  plains  of  life.  And  as  I  was 
romantic,  and  the  glamour  of  Byron's  gallant  corsairs 
sparkled  in  my  head,  attuned  to  the  tenderness  of  Keats, 
I  spoke  of  the  beautiful  sunset  and  the  goodness  of  God, 
and  gazed  down  on  the  frail  derelict  beside  me  trudging 
along  in  her  dilapidated  shoes.  How  I  remember  her  earnest 
eyes  as  she  looked  up  at  me  !  Most  assuredly  the  great  poets 
are  really  the  sad,  truthful  Bibles  of  this  world.  For  the 
tenderness,  the  atmosphere,  of  their  inspired  minds  still 
sighed  out  of  their  graves  into  my  heart,  like  the  scent  of 
the  flowers  growing  over  them.  Her  voice  became  soft  and 
sighed  with  mine,  and,  God  knows  it's  true  enough,  I  was 
never  so  proud  and  religiously  happy  as  when  that  "  bad 
woman's  "  eyes  gazed  up  into  mine  with  admiration — my 
eyes  indeed  !  Oh,  we  men,  who  write  as  though  she  would 
do  that  which  we  would  never  do  ! 

Presently  we  saw  the  wooden  houses  of  a  township  ahead, 
and  as  we  entered  the  little  main  street,  ignoring  the  curious 
looks  of  the  stragglers  who  were  leaning  against  the  verandahs 
of  the  few  shops,  sheltered  by  their  big-rimmed  bush  hats,  I 
took  her  into  an  eating-house,  where  we  ate  together.  She 
became  very  silent,  and  when  we  started  off  again,  down  the 
main  road,  I  noticed  that  tone  of  respect  in  her  voice  that 
we  give  to  those  who  we  think  we  realise  are  better  than  our- 
selves. So  I  started  to  sing  cheerily  and  made  her  laugh. 

We  arrived  at  the  outskirts  of  Wellington  at  dusk  and 
stood  under  a  lamp-post.  I  gave  her  several  shillings  ;  she 
refused  to  take  them  at  first,  until  I  said  :  "  That's  all  right, 
I  lend  it  to  you."  She  clutched  my  hand,  looked  up  at  me 
quickly  and  then  hung  her  head  and  cried  like  a  child.  I 
soon  cheered  her  up  and  made  her  promise  to  write  to  me, 
saying :  "  I  am  a  musician  and  can  make  plenty  of  money  !  " 

168 


THE  MAORI  GIRL 

"  I  thought  you  were  something  great  like  that ;  you've  got 
the  look  in  your  face,"  and  she  looked  at  me  as  though  I  was 
some  wonderful  being.  We  were  standing  outside  a  third- 
rate  theatre,  and  I  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  see  the  play. 
As  she  said  she  would,  we  went  in,  the  "  loose  street  woman  " 
and  I. 

When  we  came  out  I  said  good-bye  to  her,  and  she  got 
on  a  car  to  go  to  some  friends.  She  seemed  so  happy  as 
she  looked  back  at  me.  She  did  write  to  me,  and  I  gathered 
that  she  had  obtained  a  situation  in  a  boot  factory.  They 
were  neatly  written  letters,  and  ah  !  how  I  recall  the  soul, 
the  woman  part  of  those  letters,  and  what  they  really  meant ; 
but  suddenly  they  ceased.  How  I  pray  that  her  life  after 
that  was  a  happier  one  than  that  of  the  gallant  corsair  she 
met  on  the  bush  track  in  New  Zealand  long  ago. 

As  I  look  back  I  see  again  the  weary  face  of  that  neglected 
girl ;  her  eyes  are  looking  at  me.  I  did  not  love  her  then,  but, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  love  her  passionately  now.  Her 
shabby  skirts  and  the  bit  of  dirty  coloured  blue  ribbon  round 
her  throat  are  sacred  memories  to  me,  and  the  old  dilapidated 
shoes  are  shuffling  a  dusty  song  on  the  weary  track,  a  song 
so  unutterably  sad  that  I  think  Christ  must  have  composed 
it.  I  think  God  gathers  all  His  beauty  from  grief ;  that, 
enthroned  in  loneliness,  He  gazes  eternally  across  His  stars 
and  across  His  dark  infinities  and  sees  some  Long  Ago  ! 
For  not  in  the  vastness  of  things,  or  the  mighty  ocean  of 
space,  can  we  see  or  feel  so  much  of  Infinity  as  we  can  see  in 
the  derelict  eyes  of  the  friendless  ;  as  I  saw,  and  see  now,  in 
the  tramping  Maori  girl  of  my  spiritual  passion. 

Ah  !  how  I  love  the  memory  of  those  imaginative  boyish 
days.  I  often  wonder  if  many  boys  were,  and  are,  as  I  was, 
and  see  the  strange  things  that  I  saw.  My  earliest  recollec- 
tion is  of  the  little  bedroom  at  the  top  of  the  house  where 
I  slept  when  I  was  six  or  seven  years  of  age.  On  moonlight 
nights  I  could  see  the  poplar-trees  swaying  to  the  wind  out- 
side my  window  as  I  lay  alone  in  bed.  Just  beyond  the 
trees  was  a  stable,  and  its  chimney  had  a  large  cowl  on  it. 
That  cowl  was  shaped  like  a  helmet  and  had  ribbed  marks  on 
it,  like  deep  wrinkles  on  an  old  man's  throat,  and  as  the  wind 

169 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

blew  it  turned  slowly  and  majestically  round.  I  used  to 
peep  from  the  sheets  out  on  the  moonlight  night  with 
frightened,  awestruck  eyes ;  for  my  childish  brain  firmly 
believed  that  it  was  God's  head  moving  against  the  sky — 
watching  me  whenever  it  turned  towards  my  window  ! 

I  told  my  mother  about  it,  and  they  all  assured  me  that  it 
was  only  a  chimney  cowl,  but  still  I  did  not  like  the  look 
of  it,  and  I  was  delighted  when  they  shifted  my  bed  into 
another  room.  At  another  time  I  stole  some  green  apples 
off  a  tree  hi  our  garden  and  got  very  sick  and  ill.  My  dear 
mother  made  me  promise  to  steal  apples  no  more ;  and  she 
said  to  me  :  "  Though  I  cannot  always  see  you,  God  can, 
for  He  is  always  walking  about  everywhere." 

"  What  is  He  like  ?  "  I  asked,  and  then  she  described 
Him. 

Not  long  after  that  I  was  going  up  a  lonely  lane  near  our 
house  when  I  suddenly  spied  some  green  gooseberries  in  a 
long  front  garden.  Being  a  born  vagabond,  I  opened  the  gate 
and  crept  in,  and  kneeling  down  by  the  bushes  I  stole  a 
pocketful  of  the  unripe  gooseberries.  Just  as  I  was  bolting 
off  an  old  gentleman  with  a  long  white  beard,  who  held  a 
walking-stick  to  help  him  along,  quietly  opened  the  gate, 
walked  in  and  looked  at  me  with  solemn  eyes.  I  stood 
before  him  trembling  like  a  leaf,  quite  certain  that  God 
stood  before  me !  I  hung  my  head  with  shame  and  said  : 
"  Oh,  God,  I  am  so  sorry,  please  forgive  me  "  ;  and  then  I  saw 
a  kind  look  in  God's  eyes.  I  promised  never  to  steal  again. 
He  let  me  out  of  the  gate ;  and  I  rushed  off  home,  thrilled 
with  excitement.  I  almost  burst  the  door  open  and,  rushing 
up  to  my  mother,  shouted :  "  I've  seen  God  !  He's  such  a 
kind  old  man.  He's  given  me  a  penny  !  "  Sometimes  now  I 
think  that  God  is  dead,  that  He  has  died  of  sheer  loneliness 
and  grief  over  the  sad  lot  of  His  lost  children. 

I  have  often  wondered  what  I  have  lost  through  embrac- 
ing scallawagism  with  its  visionary  splendours.  Probably, 
were  it  not  for  that,  I  should  be  the  proud  possessor  of  a  brick 
house  in  a  decorous  suburb,  and  oh  !  vast  ambition,  wear  a 
white  collar  and  cuffs.  And,  who  knows,  be  pushing  my 
lawn-mower,  hiding  my  sarcastic  grin  over  its  ostentatious 

170 


A  VAGABOND'S  EXCELSIOR 

hum — as  I  watch  my  envious  neighbour  cut  his  grass  with 
shears  ! 

Even  so,  I  think  the  greater  prize  is  in  being  able  to  sit 
over  the  hearth  fire  or  the  camp  fire  with  one's  comrades, 
revelling  in  the  realism  of  the  "  Not  Permissible,"  turning 
the  Universe  the  other  way  and  singing  the  reminiscent 
vagabond's  Excelsior — Onward  to  the  Past !  Ever  back 
to  some  happy  past,  back  to  the  miser  hoards  from  the 
glorious  Past  to  the  loaded  wine  cellars  of  dreamland's 
infinity.  To  uncork  the  bottled  dead  sunsets,  foaming  cham- 
pagnes of  forgotten  forest  moonlights  and  blazing  camp  fires, 
bubbling  laughter  and  friendly  eyes.  Drink  deeply  to  her 
lips  of  other  days,  renew  the  old  vows,  clasp  her  tightly,  gaze 
in  her  eyes  ere  the  desert  wind  blow  her  from  your  arms — as 
scattered  dust !  And,  if  she  be  old,  if  her  face,  her  loveli- 
ness, be  changed  to  the  wrinkled  map,  the  sad  parchment 
whereon  Time's  hand  ever  toils  to  write  creation's  grief,  kiss 
her  passionately,  dip  her  in  the  bath  of  old  cleansing  imagina- 
tion, rewhiten  her  limbs  and  make  her  beautiful !  Watch 
her  happiness  !  Make  the  only  future  man  ever  knew,  or 
ever  will  know ;  gladden  and  become  rich  with  life's  old  wine 
of  the  beautifully  unreal !  Friend,  shut  your  eyes  and  look 
at  the  past ;  see  sunsets  and  sunrises,  the  mirrored  blue 
days  of  silent  skies,  soaring  birds,  ancient  cities,  nations  and 
their  histories,  empires  of  splendid  chaotic  violence,  laughter, 
love  and  intense  tragical  drama.  Now  shut  your  eyes  and 
look  at  the  future — can  you  see  one  moment  of  its  reality  ? 
No,  you  cannot.  So  make  your  spiritual  creed  some  dim, 
long-ago  remembrance  of  your  own  happiness,  and  cherish 
and  make  the  old  the  new  !  Make  yesterday,  and  to-day, 
and  to-morrow  shining  planets  that  came,  and  are  coming 
from  the  illimitable  past  to  swim  into  the  happy  skies  of 
your  ken.  And  let  the  lawn-mower's  triumphant,  respectable 
humming  go  by  ! 

Probably  we  vagabonds  are  mad,  and  the  great  majority 
who  laugh  at  sentiment  are  the  really  sane  ones.  How 
strange  indeed  if,  after  all,  the  poets  are  wrong,  and  the  great 
and  glorious  aim  and  end  of  the  Universe  is — affluence,  with 
flabbiness,  grand  pianofortes,  Brussels  carpets,  retinues  of 

171 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

wooden  servants  and  gold  !  Gold  !  Indeed,  for  all  those 
things  we  vagabonds  must  hold  the  candle  to  the  devil.  For 
alas  !  the  body  cannot  live  on  sunsets  and  the  memory  of  sad 
derelicts,  dead  sailors  and  forgotten  heroes.  But  mentally 
we  are  wealthy.  We  have  explored  the  gold-fields  of  the 
universe  and  struck  a  rich  vein.  It  is  rough  gold,  truly, 
but  perhaps  our  Creator  never  meant  it  to  be  reforged 
and  rehallmarked  after  He  scattered  it  among  the  stars. 
Certainly  it  has  always  appealed  to  me  in  the  rough  state, 
more  so  than  in  the  polish  of  strange,  unmusical  voices,  high 
collars  and  a  great  lack  of  appreciation  for  shabby  men. 
We  vagabonds  are  not  conscientious  judges  of  worldly  great- 
ness. We  are  strangely  biassed  in  favour  of  those  lost  out- 
casts who  drift  on  the  waters  of  infinity,  singing  chanteys  to 
the  wandering  stars,  and  not  caring  so  long  as  "  God's  in 
His  heaven — all's  right  with  the  world  !  "  What  matters 
if  men  are  happy  ?  Yes,  even  though  "  they  fall  by  the 
roadside  and  die,"  with  no  obituary  notice  and  the  "  cause 
of  little  crape,"  as  one  of  my  critics  said.  He  and  I,  I 
think,  would  tramp  the  world  together  if  we  had  a  chance  to 
live  our  life  over  again.  We  may  live  again  ;  I  sometimes 
think  I  have  lived  before.  And  what  greater  truth  is 
there  in  the  hearts  of  men  than  their  own  belief  in  all 
that  they  believe  ? 


172 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Memories  and  Reflection — A  Picture  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson — 
German  Appreciation — Of  Norman  Descent — A  Cannibal's 
Execution — An  Australian  Sundowner — A  Voltaire  of  the 
Southern  Seas — Types 

DREAMING  over  New  Zealand  days  and  the  many 
types  and   characters  I  have  met   destroys   the 
continuity  of  actual  events :  my  thoughts  digress 
for  a  moment  to  various  experiences  and  pictures  which  my 
memory  has  recorded.     Memories,   in  the  perspective  of 
dead  Time,  vary  with  our  moods.     Sometimes  the  figures 
and  events  stand  out  vividly,  and  at  other  times  are  illusive, 
and  seem  some  sad,  intangible  thing  far  away  in  the  back- 
ground of  life. 

The  old  bushman's  red  beard  and  twinkling  eyes ;  the 
squatting  savages  by  their  huts  ;  the  sensitive  mouths  and 
wondering  eyes  of  the  native  girls ;  old  scallawags ;  beach- 
combers ;  the  noise  of  sailors  on  ships  in  the  bay ;  Horn- 
castle's  jovial  face  aglow  with  joy  and  drink ;  the  palm-clad 
shores,  and  Apia's  primitive  town,  seem  far-off  dreams.  I 
can  still  see  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  Samoa ;  his  tall,  bony 
form,  attired  in  white  trousers,  shirt  and  old  shoes  only, 
stands  on  the  beach.  His  hand  is  arched  over  his  watching 
eyes,  his  loose  scarf  blows  out  behind  him  to  the  gusty  trade 
wind,  as  he  stares  seaward  at  the  fading  schooner  that  takes 
some  friend  away  for  ever.  He  looks  like  some  memorial 
figure,  the  statue  of  a  half  poet,  half  pioneer  gazing  with 
aching  eyes  across  the  sea.  The  wind  stirs  the  wisp  of  dark 
hair  on  the  high,  pale  brow  ;  the  head  is  hatless  and  perfectly 
still,  but  the  fine  eyes  are  alive  and  full  of  far-away  thoughts. 
Now  he  moves  away  and  goes  up  the  shore,  and  does  not 
even  see  the  smile  of  recognition  on  the  face  of  the  trading 
ship's  skipper,  who  passes  with  a  Samoan  sailor  and  one 
other.  Like  the  memory  of  some  tragical  living  picture 

173 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

it  all  flashes  across  my  mind.  I  could  think  it  all  unreal, 
some  far-off  rocky,  beautiful  unknown  isle,  set  in  the  seas 
of  my  imagination,  as  I  paint  the  stars,  the  skies,  the  break- 
ing waves,  the  ships  and  the  sailors  coming  into  the  harbour, 
or  once  more  going  seaward.  At  other  times  Samoa's  Isles 
come  back  vividly,  and  just  as  a  sailor,  far  away  at  sea,  stands 
on  the  fo'c'sle  head  and  watches  the  big  clouds  shift  on  the 
horizon  as  they  break  and  suddenly  reveal  blue  tropical 
skies  over  the  outstretched,  unknown  continent's  shores  of 
singing  waves  and  palm  forests,  so  I  see  the  past,  and  the 
figures  move.  The  winds  stir  the  trees,  and  the  magical, 
musical  voices  of  savage  men  and  women  sing  and  laugh,  in 
a  world  that  is  now  The  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments  of 
my  boyhood. 

As  you  can  imagine,  I  have  met  many  strange  types  of 
men  and  women  in  my  travels,  types  both  good  and  bad.  I 
tramped  many,  many  weary  miles  in  the  Australian  bush 
when  I  was  fifteen  years  of  age.  Often  I  tramped  alone, 
when  I  could  not  get  a  congenial  comrade.  I  was  some- 
times very  lucky;  and  my  reminiscences  of  those  good 
comrades  are  the  lights  that  shine  down  the  dark  tracks  far 
away  as  I  remember  their  eyes.  One  was  a  man  of  about 
thirty  years  of  age.  He  was  exceedingly  cheerful  and  full  of 
song  and  devilment.  I  can  still  see  his  refined  face  aglow 
as  he  sits  under  the  scorched  gum-trees  smashing  swamp 
mosquitoes  on  his  hand  or  singing  his  favourite  songs  in  a 
quiet,  manly  voice.  We  stayed  together  for  two  or  three  days 
at  a  sheep  station,  where  the  boss  was  a  German.  He  was 
all  right.  But  there  were  two  German  women  and  a  son 
there  too.  When  I  played  the  violin  to  them,  and  turned 
around  for  the  welcome  and  expected  applause,  they  said  : 
"Veil,  dat  vash  little  nize";  and  then  they  shook  their 
Teutonic  square  heads  and,  with  their  eyes  and  hands  lifted 
to  the  shanty  roof,  said:  "But,  O-ez!  you  shoulds  hear 
zem  play  that  tunezz  in  Germanhy — O-o-o-o-e-z-z-z-z-z  ze 
diff-er-enze !  " 

Then  my  boyish  blood  warmed  up  and  I  said  :  "  Germans 
can't  play  the  violin.  Paganini  wasn't  a  German.  No 
German  ever  played  except  by  science." 

174 


GERMAN  GREATNESS 

"  Mein  Gott !  Mein  Gott !  O,  haves  you  never  vash 
beards  Vons  Kriessburgh  ?  He  play  that  same  tuenz  vich 
you  just  now  play  so — phoo  !  "—here  they  shrugged  their 
shoulders  with  disgust  at  my  performance — "like  dis,"  and  the 
two  German  women,  who  had  faces  like  pasty  pumpkins  with 
glass  eyes  stuck  in  them,  and  the  son,  with  his  big  moustache 
twirled  at  the  ends,  lifted  their  hands  and  eyes  to  the  roof  to 
express  the  ecstatic  memory  of  the  German's  violin-playing. 
Their  mouths  went  "  O,  o-ez-e-z-z-z-z-z-z-ez,"  emitting  a 
strange  sound  that  faded  away  in  complete  exhaustion  as 
they  sank  down  on  to  the  three  chairs  like  three  puppets. 
Not  only  violin-playing,  but  everything,  was  wonderful  in 
German  art.  If  one  said,  "  What  a  nice  picture,"  or  "  What 
nice  butter,"  they'd  raise  their  eyebrows  and  sigh  out  that 
old  crescendo,  "  O,  O-e-z-z-z,"  and  say :  "  Have  yous  never, 
never  tasted  German  butter  ?  "  It  was  the  same  with  eggs, 
beef,  pork,  men,  boots,  girls  or  any  d d  thing  ! 

My  congenial  comrade  went  off  to  New  Zealand,  and  I  ran 
across  another  one,  who  was  most  uncongenial  for  a  time. 
We  were  tramping  across  the  bush-lands,  looking  for  work 
on  stations  and  secretly  hoping  that  we  were  not  wanted. 
My  friend  was  a  short,  thick- set,  thick-necked  fellow  about 
two  years  older  than  I,  with  a  slightly  elevated,  protruding 
chin  and  a  mouth  that  talked  from  morn  till  night  about  his 
ancestry.  I  forget  now  whether  he  said  they  were  descend- 
ants of  Julius  Caesar's  invading  horde  or  of  William  the 
Conqueror.  Anyway  our  friendship  was  one  incessant 
argument. 

I  was  just  on  six  feet  high,  full  of  health  and  independent 
strength,  and  I  found  that  I  was  supposed  to  walk  beside 
him  with  my  head  hanging  for  shame  because  I  was  only  a 
"  common  Englishman."  We  were  on  a  lonely  bush  track ; 
ragged  gum-trees  fenced  the  broken  sky-lines  for  miles  and 
miles  around  us.  The  only  onlookers  were  parrots  and 
cockatoos,  like  vividly  coloured  leaves  overhead.  There 
was  no  sight  or  sound  of  human  habitation  in  that  vast, 
sombre  solitude  as  we  tramped  along  together.  A  feeling 
of  grim  exultation  seemed  to  suddenly  seize  me.  Once  more 
I  swallowed  another  pill  of  insult,  and  I  looked  down  sideways 

175 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

at  my  blue-blooded  companion.  I  thought  of  my  ancestral 
forefathers,  and  wondered  if  his  ancestors  had  robbed  my 
ancestors,  and  ravaged  their  lands  and  castles — my  possible 
birthright ! 

He  did  not  know  what  I  was  thinking  of  as  he  talked  away. 
His  short  legs  strutted  along  the  track  with  the  toes  turned 
up,  his  nose  and  chin  also  inclined  skyward,  as  once  more  he 

reminded  me  of  my  plebeian  origin.   Suddenly ! Well,  I'll 

not  tell  you  all,  for  why  should  we  be  proud  of  the  animalistic 
strain  that  sometimes  dominates  our  natures  ?  Why  be 
proud  that  suddenly  a  bolt  seemed  to  fall  from  the  blue,  and 
one  of  the  reputed  descendants  of  the  first  Kaiser  Bill  got  his 
deserts,  and  lay  with  his  back  in  the  dust,  his  Imperial  nose 
and  semi-conscious  eyes  staring  half  vacantly  up  at  the 
Australian  sky,  while  plebeian,  old  pioneer  England,  with  a 
swag  on  his  back,  tramped  away  and  faded  on  the  horizon 
— triumphant — alone  ! 

Ere  sunset  darkened  the  sky  I  lay  ambushed  in  a  clump 
of  wattles  by  the  forest,  then  peeped  and  saw  my  comrade 
coming  slowly  down  the  track  with  his  toes  turned  down.  I 
repented  and  thought :  "  Even  if  it's  true,  he  cannot  help 
being  the  descendant  of  bloodthirsty  ravishers,  who  killed 
old  men  and  robbed  my  country's  churches.  No,  even  he 
cannot  help  himself. "  Sol  crept  out  and  told  him  I  repented, 
and  once  more  we  tramped  along  as  comrades.  So  silent 
was  he  about  William  the  Conqueror  that  you  would  have 
thought  such  a  man  had  never  lived.  He  admitted  that 
night,  as  we  sat  by  the  camp  fire,  when  I  had  explained  my 
feelings  to  him,  that  his  descent  was  only  a  family  rumour. 
Hearing  that,  I  truly  forgave  him,  and  we  lifted  the  billy  can 
of  cold  tea  and  drank  a  united  toast  to  the  memory  of 
Caractacus  and  Boadicea,  and  death  to  all  descendants  of 
the  first  great  bloated  Kaiser  Bill  who  dare  prove  to  us  their 
murderous,  cowardly  ancestry  ! 

I  met  yet  another  gentleman  of  ancient  emigrant  blood 
in  Tahiti.  He  was  a  gigantic  old  chap,  a  chief.  I  slept  in 
his  hut  with  four  American  runaway  sailors,  who  were  wait- 
ing with  me  for  the  next  boat  to  call,  so  that  we  could  clear 
out.  Night  after  night  that  old  chief  would  sit  and  tell  us  of 

176 


ANCIENT  BLOOD 

the  wonderful  earlier  days,  when  he  was  the  great  king  of  the 
inland  dominions,  loved  by  all  the  tribes  for  his  bravery  and 
justice,  and  had  had  a  special  envoy  sent  out  by  Queen 
Victoria  to  represent  her  appreciation  to  the  one  true 
Christian  monarch  of  the  Southern  Seas. 

He  had  fine  eyes,  and  they  flashed  as  he  told  of  these  old 
days,  and  his  tattooed  frame  swelled  majestically  over  many 
a  wild  memory.  He  even  shed  tears  as  he  sang  to  us  old  far- 
off  songs  of  dead  heroes,  mighty  chiefs  and  tender  maids  he 
had  eaten  at  the  cannibalistic  festive  board.  One  night  we 
returned  to  the  hut  and  found  that  the  great  monarch  had 
bolted  off  with  all  our  possessions ;  even  my  last  shirt  had 
gone  !  Two  weeks  later  he  was  caught  by  the  gendarmes  ; 
then  we  heard  that  he  was  a  ferocious  cannibal  of  low  origin, 
and  that  they  had  been  trying  to  catch  him  for  twelve  months. 
He  had  killed  a  native  boy,  strangled  him  in  the  forest,  and 
eaten  him.  Before  we  left  we  heard  that  he  had  been  shot 
by  the  French  Commissioners.  About  six  weeks  after, 
while  I  was  walking  along  the  beach  at  Apia,  I  met  him.  He 
ran  for  his  life,  before  my  friend  and  I  got  a  chance  to  recover 
from  our  astonishment  and  run  in  the  opposite  direction. 
The  hired  native  sharpshooters  had  deliberately  missed  him, 
and  the  old  scoundrel  had  fallen  dead  till  nightfall  only  ! 

Another  time  I  met  an  old  dilapidated  sundowner,  a  real 
specimen  of  the  Australian  bush-lands.  It  was  miles  up 
country  where  I  first  met  him,  sitting  under  his  gum-trees 
by  a  creek  making  his  billy  boil.  He  gave  me  a  hot  drink 
and  I  gave  him  a  tobacco  plug ;  and  as  the  billy  boiled  up 
again  he  said  :  "  Where  yer  bound  for  ?  "  "  Anywhere,"  I 
answered.  "  Wall,  yer  better  come  with  me  to  Coomiranta 
Creek,  ten  miles  off  the  western  track,  by  Wangarris  Yards  ; 
we  can  get  plenty  tucker  there  ;  and  then  on  to  the  Sandy 
Hills  and  across  Dead  Girl's  Flat  into  Hompy  Bom,  that 
leads  across  Gum  Creek  into  Dead  Crow's  Paddock,  two  miles 
or  more  from  Dead  Man's  Hollow.  Then  strike  the  gullies  by 
Riley's  ranch,  and  there  we  can  get  another  stock  of  tucker. 
He's  a  real  all  right  'un  Riley  is,  and  not  too  bad  either." 

And  so  he  rambled  on,  as  he  wiped  his  grizzly  grey  beard, 
a  beard  so  thick  with  spittle  and  tobacco  juice  that  it  acted 
M  177 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

as  a  kind  of  fly-catcher  for  him  ;  the  buzzing  insects  flapped 
their  wings  and  struggled  with  their  tangled  feet  in  that 
awful  hairy  web  till  they  were  swept  into  Eternity  by  his 
brushing  hand.  Indeed  his  companionship  was  greatly 
esteemed  by  me,  for  as  we  tramped  along  under  the  swelter- 
ing sun  I  walked  beside  him  untormented  by  the  mosquitoes 
and  the  myriads  of  hissing  flies  that  like  a  swarm  of  honey- 
bees kept  on  his  side,  following  his  monstrous  bushy  beard 
as  we  travelled  south. 

His  whole  life  was  centred  on  the  various  stations  by  the 
known  tracks  and  the  grades  of  generosity  in  the  hearts  of 
the  overseers  and  stockmen.  These  sundowners  arrive  at 
the  stations  at  sunset  and  appeal  for  work  just  as  the  day's 
work  is  finished  and  bolt  off  at  daybreak  into  the  bush,  with 
their  old  brown  blanket  on  their  backs.  Stolid  old  men 
some  of  them,  they  are  real  derelicts  of  the  old  days.  They 
look  like  grey-bearded  figure-heads  of  ships,  fixed  on  weary, 
ragged  bodies,  as  with  their  pipes  in  their  mouths  they  pass 
and  fade  across  the  oceans  of  scrub,  spinifex  and  sand, 
buccaneers  on  the  high  seas  of  Australian  bush.  My  old 
sundowner  hardly  ever  spoke  as  we  wandered  along  under 
the  gum-trees,  as  the  magpies  sat  on  the  twigs  and  chuckled, 
and  bees  moaned  in  the  bush  flowers  of  the  hollows.  We 
arrived  in  a  bush  town  of  about  twenty  wooden  houses  and 
two  shops  that  sold  all  humanity  requires.  I  played  the 
violin,  and  he  was  delighted  when  I  gave  him  all  the  money 
which  he  collected  in  his  vast  broad-rimmed  hat. 

"  I  say,  matey,  chum  up  with  me,"  he  said,  as  his  long- 
sleeping  commercial  eye  opened  and  stared  at  the  money. 
But  I  didn't  chum  up  with  him  ;  I  was  not  built  for  a  sun- 
downer. I  recall  how  he  always  said  his  prayers  after  he 
had  tucked  his  blanket  around  his  body  and  laid  his  head 
on  the  heaped  bush  grass.  He  was  old  then.  I  suppose 
he's  long  been  dead  now,  and  lies  somewhere  in  those 
far-away  bush-lands. 

I've  seen  some  strange  types  in  my  time ;  but  what  are 
those  types  compared  to  the  normal  tribes  I've  seen  and 
played  to,  laughed,  loved  and  squabbled  with.  Little 
brown  children  clothed  only  in  moonlight  and  sunlight, 


SOUTH  SEA  PHILOSOPHERS 

singing  cheerfully  by  the  South  Sea  breakers  under  the  dark- 
fingered  coco-palms.  Sad  little  faces,  some  like  deserted 
baby  angels,  looking  up  into  my  face — my  children  !  Dis- 
hevelled, strange  old  bush  mothers,  crooning  to  their  buds 
of  humanity,  tiny  brown  clinging  hands  and  moving  mouths 
at  their  kind,  softly  feeding  brown  breasts — my  mothers  ! 
Old  tattooed  chiefs  and  grim-looking  kings ;  rough-haired 
semi-savage  girls  ;  and  youths  jabbering  in  strange  tongues, 
with  hushed,  secret  voices,  over  the  terrible  white  plague 
that  had  entered  and  stricken  their  primitive  city  of  huts ; 
the  white-faced,  fierce-looking  invaders  from  across  the  seas. 
Ravishers  of  their  maidens  !  The  scum  of  the  Western  cities 
prowling  about  the  villages  that  had  become  the  hot-beds 
of  lust  and  sin's  terrible  paradise.  Missionaries,  with 
melancholy,  hollow  voices,  who  seldom  knew  anything  of 
the  intense  inner  life  of  humanity  and  the  great  philosophy 
of  happiness.  Superstitious,  bigoted  old  chiefs  cursing  the 
white  man's  Bible.  Philosophical  old  brown  men  with 
high  brows  and  keen  dark  eyes  reflectively  nodding  their 
heads.  South  Sea  Oldenburgs  striving  to  convince  grim 
South  Sea  Spinozas.  Stalwart,  dark  tattooed  Schopenhauers 
shouting  about  wind-baggery. 

I  can  see  again  the  ironical  heathen  chief  sitting  by  his 
palatial  hut.  He  is  clever,  a  Voltaire  of  the  Southern  Seas. 
His  strong  face  is  tattooed  ;  grim-looking  are  his  little  eyes 
as  he  grins  and  looks  at  the  Marquesan  coat-of-arms  which 
he  has  invented  and  placed  at  his  door — a  large  empty  rum 
barrel  and  on  top  of  it  a  Christian  Bible  ! 

I  see  the  pretty  Samoan  girl,  Millancoo,  with  lovely  dream- 
ing eyes  and  thick  bronzed  hair,  with  a  red  and  white 
hibiscus  flower  stuck  in  at  each  side.  Her  brown 
limbs  and  figure  are  the  perfection  of  graceful  beauty, 
dressed  only  in  a  little  blue  chemise.  She  eloped  with  a 
"noble  white  man"  to  the  Gilbert  Isles,  and  committed 
suicide  when  he  left  her,  ere  her  first-born  could  creep  to  her 
bosom  and  taste  the  only  milk  of  human  kindness  it  would 
most  probably  have  ever  known. 

Earnest-faced  Tippo,  her  sister,  sits  on  the  slope.  Happy  as 
night  with  its  stars  is  she,  with  six  little  dark,  plump  children 

179 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

with  demon-like  eyes  romping  all  round  her.  She  has  married 
an  uncivilised  nigger  from  Timbuctoo !  O  happy  girl ! 
How  the  natives  chided  and  sneered  at  her  at  first  for  not 
marrying  a  great  white  lord  as  her  sister  did  ! 

Beautiful  women,  and  men  also,  I  have  met  in  strange 
places.  I  have  found  them  in  the  hovels  and  among  the  scum 
of  life,  and  sometimes  in  the  palatial  home  of  affluence.  Con- 
victs of  New  Caledonia  in  the  calaboose  or  toiling  in  chains, 
breathing,  yet  as  dead  as  dust,  with  hollow,  sad  eyes,  corpses 
from  La  Belle  France — my  poor  brothers  !  Old  men  and 
women  begging  by  the  kerb-side  in  the  far-away  civilised 
Isle  of  the  Western  Seas  !  The  old  man  in  rags,  a  skeleton 
on  tottering  feet,  shivering,  going  down  the  cold,  windy, 
main  road  of  the  lighted  suburb,  singing,  with  a  palsied  old 
mouth,  some  song  that  God  composed  ere  Christ  came.  He 
is  my  beloved  comrade ;  bury  me  with  him,  so  that  the  flowers 
over  us  may  twine  in  our  dead  dust  and  find  mutual 
sympathy. 

I  have  seen  multitudes  of  commercial  burglars,  wealthy 
villains,  who  fought  so  valiantly  to  save  their  own  lives  that 
they  have  received  the  commercial  V.C.  for  valour — and 
penniless,  profligate  angels,  fighting  side  by  side  in  the  battle 
of  nations — that  battle  wherein  the  bullets  cause  mortal 
wounds,  though  many  years  pass  before  they  send  the 
bloodless  corpses  to  heaven — or  hell. 

I  have  seen  old,  ragged,  hideous,  long  dead  women  still 
sitting  by  the  attic's  hearth  fire,  sipping  the  gin  bottle — 
sweet-fumed  opium  for  their  spectral  dreams.  As  they  stare 
at  the  embers  burning  in  the  red  glow  they  see  their  own 
girlhood  faces  smile  once  more  back  into  their  bleared 
eyes,  with  remembered  beauty,  happiness  and  glorious  faith. 
Old  roues  too  dream  somewhere — the  men  who  made  the 
vows  to  those  drunken  old  women  and  never  kept  them — 
may  they  sleep  well,  but  never  wake  ! 

I  have  heard  the  majestic  cathedral  organ  thunder  its 
rolling  music  to  the  roof  as  the  beggar  passed  by  the  massive, 
nail-studded  door  on  swollen  feet,  rubbed  his  cold  skeleton 
hands  together  and  spat  viciously.  No  food  in  his  body, 
and  his  soul — well,  why  should  he  worry  about  his  soul  ? 

180 


VIRTUE 

I  have  seen  the  great  shocked  multitude  open  their  eyes 
aghast,  and  heard  the  tremendous  crash,  the  clatter  of  the 
hail  of  stones,  when  the  voice  said  :  "  He  that  is  without  sin 
among  you,  let  him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her."  O  wonderful 
goodness  !  O  icy,  stony  virtue. 

Ah!  not  only  in  the  wild  Australasian  bush  or  in  the 
Southern  Seas  is  the  great  drama  of  life  enacted ;  the  great 
drama  that  makes  your  heart  cold,  and  the  old  warm  belief 
become  encrusted  with  icicles,  as  you  dream  over  the  strange 
lot  of  the  wandering,  lost  children. 

I've  laid  me  down  deep  in  the  bush  to  sleep, 
And  wrapt  my  body  in  the  sunset's  blaze. 
Then  wondered  why  He  made  sad  wings  for  days 
To  fly  away — and  all  our  world  to  weep. 

Like  to  a  myriad  birds  blown  round  sunset 
In  song,  I  thought  I  watched  God's  careworn  Face 
Brushed  by  bright  wings — the  unborn  human  race 
Who  did  not  want  their  mortal  birth — just  yet  1 

I  heard  the  growing  flowers  cry  in  the  night, 
And  trees — that  whisper  of  old  cherished  things. 
And  still  the  startled,  hurried  rush  of  wings — 
It  was  the  stars  sighed  out — upon  their  flight. 

O  Troubadours,  O  Stars,  what  sing  you  of  ? 

O  wandering  minstrels,  is  it  to  God's  plan 

You  sing  ? — or  to  the  exiled  heart  of  man 

Who  pays  with  death's  blind  eyes  and  cherished  love  ? 

But  still  the  children  cry  upon  the  plain 
Beside  a  grave  ;  and  still  the  cheerful  king 
Grows  fat  j  and  sad  old  men  say  :   "  Anything, 
O  God,  except  to  live  this  life  again  I  -1 


181 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  Lecturer— The  Italian  Virtuoso — Disillusioned 

BEFORE  I  left  New  Zealand  I  secured  an  engagement 
to  play  the  violin  at  a  concert  hall  where  the  district 
assembled  to  applaud  the  talent  of  youthful  piano- 
forte players  and  maidens  who  had  cultivated  voices.    I 
was  engaged  to  play  violin  solos,  accompanied  by  the  piano, 
and  to  perform  suitable  tripping  melodies  for  old  feet  when 
the  parents  danced  after  the  entertainment. 

One  night,  when  I  was  hurrying  back  to  my  rooms  after 
the  dance,  sick  at  heart  (for,  believe  me,  I  do  not  tell  you  of 
my  many  aspirations  and  the  disappointments  of  those  days), 
I  heard  a  wheezy  voice  behind  me  call :  "  Hi !  you,  Mr 
Violinist."  I  immediately  turned,  and  an  old  gentleman 
with  a  benevolent,  cheerful  face  stood  puffing  and  smiling 
at  me.  "  Pray  excuse  my  interruption,"  he  said  as  he  bowed ; 
then  he  continued :  "  Ah,  my  dear  boy,  you  are  a  real 
musician  and  play  your  instrument  as  though  you  have  a 
soul ;  you  remind  me  of  my  own  youthful  days,  when  I 
played  the  violin,  by  special  command,  to  Queen  Victoria." 
Hearing  this,  I  at  once  became  inwardly  attentive.  I  had 
several  manuscript  songs  that  I  wanted  to  get  published, 
and  no  publisher  in  New  Zealand  or  Australia  would  look 
at  them  unless  I  paid  for  the  expense  of  engraving,  so,  not 
knowing  what  influence  the  old  fellow  might  have,  I 
speedily  got  into  conversation  with  him — not  from  ambitious 
motives  only,  for  he  seemed  a  kind-hearted  and  intellectual 
old  man,  and  therefore  commanded  my  respect  as  well 
as  my  hopes.  Inviting  me  into  an  hotel,  he  offered  me 
a  drink,  and  seemed  very  much  surprised  when  I  asked  for 
"  shandy  gaff,"  which  is  a  mixture  of  ginger-beer  and  light 
ale.  I  flushed  slightly  and  reordered  whisky  at  his  sugges- 
tion, and,  though  it  tasted  like  kava  and  paraffin  oil  mixed,  I 

182 


CHARITY  AND  ART 

bravely  took  sips  of  it,  while  the  old  chap  told  me  of  his 
violin  engagements  and  the  praise  accorded  him  by  the 
musical  critic  of  The  Times  and  by  personages  in  the  royal 
courts  of  Europe.  As  I  listened,  and  nodded  approval  and 
surprise,  I  observed  him  carefully. 

He  was  innocent  looking,  with  a  cheery  round  face  and 
eyes  that  were  small,  but  vivacious  and  blue ;  his  hat  was 
neither  a  tall  hat  nor  a  bowler :  it  had  a  small  rim,  which  gave 
it  that  clerical  contour  which  seems  to  be  worn  especially  tcT 
allay  any  suspicion  that  might  fall  on  its  owner.  I  would 
not  reflect  upon  the  appearance  of  this  gentleman  so  much 
if  it  were  not  that  his  appearance  helped  him  enormously. 
I  am  not  going  to  be  hard  upon  him  either ;  notwithstand- 
ing his  sins,  he  was  at  heart  a  kindly  man ;  but  Nature  had 
mixed  his  dough  with  too  much  yeast,  so  that  his  aspirations 
to  do  well  rose  far  beyond  the  range  of  his  intellect  and  solid, 
commercial  honesty.  This  was  a  fact  that  helped  me  con- 
siderably ;  for  this  commonplace  failing  of  our  race,  shown 
in  him,  put  me  on  my  guard  in  the  future  and  saved  me 
much  pain  and  many  misfortunes  in  after  days.  I  do  not 
mean  to  be  sarcastic  in  the  foregoing  remarks,  though  it  may 
sound  like  it.  I  only  intend  to  convey  to  those  who  have 
not  experienced  much  the  fact  that  all  individual  types  of 
good  and  bad  men  you  meet  in  civilised  lands  are  just 
teachers  in  the  university  ;  that  you  must  face,  if  you  are 
not  blessed  with  wealth,  and  go  off  to  seek  it.  They  give  you 
experience,  and  make  you  a  critic  of  your  race,  so  that 
you  can  know  and  appreciate  goodness,  if  in  your  lifetime 
you  are  fortunate  enough  to  meet  it.  They  also  teach  you 
to  be  lenient  in  your  judgment  of  others,  and  by  compari- 
sons and  pondering  over  their  sins  you  will  recognise  your 
own. 

Though  the  old  fellow  tried  to  impress  me  with  his  great- 
ness, and  praised  my  many  virtues,  I  instinctively  felt  that  I 
did  not  possess  them.  I  also  noticed  that,  though  he  told 
me  that  he  had  just  arrived  at  Christchurch  to  give  lectures 
to  increase  the  funds  for  orphanage  children,  his  fancy  waist- 
coat had  been  brushed  to  death  and  looked  shabby.  This 
fact  damped  both  my  hopes  and  vanity ;  for  I  perceived  that 

183 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

his  praise  of  my  violin-playing  was  inspired  by  very  much 
the  same  feeling  that  made  me  repeatedly  nod  polite  approval 
over  his  erstwhile  fame  in  the  royal  courts  and  concerts  of 
Great  Britain.  In  short,  we  were  both  hard  up  for  some- 
thing that  we  needed,  and  saw  that  we  could  help  each  other 
by  being  polite  and  awaiting  events. 

I  was  young,  and  he  was  grey  and  old,  and  possibly  had 
been  a  really  good  man  in  his  day,  till  the  soulful  melody  of 
heart-beats,  called  life,  had  gradually  resolved  itself  into  a 
minor  key,  and  that  drama  of  grey  hairs  and  a  wheezy  voice 
that  praised  my  youthful  melodies  in  that  saloon  bar  off  the 
main  road  in  Christchurch,  New  Zealand.  He  fingered  about 
in  his  pocket,  and  I  at  once  ordered  him  another  drink,  and 
inspired  with  bravery,  through  his  shabby  waistcoat,  I 
boldly  called  for  shandy  gaff  and  pushed  the  whisky  aside. 
We  were  now,  by  observation  of  each  other's  deficiencies, 
brothers,  and  though  Queen  Victoria's  praise  of  his  talent 
still  lingered  in  my  memory,  I  noticed  that  he  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief  as  I  paid  for  the  next  drink,  and  at  once  I  felt  that  we 
were  at  last  equals.  I  will  not  weary  you  with  any  more 
details,  but  on  the  way  home  that  night  he  walked  beside 
me,  and  I  agreed  to  be  the  solo  violinist  at  the  lectures  which 
he  was  about  to  give  in  various  halls  that  he  was  hiring.  I 
was  not  to  get  a  specified  salary,  but  was  to  receive,  which 
was  better  still,  he  said,  shares  in  the  collection  and  in  the 
tickets  sold,  after  the  bulk  of  the  proceeds  had  been  put  by 
for  the  New  Zealand  orphanages. 

Next  morning  he  called  at  my  rooms  at  the  time  appointed. 
By  daylight  my  clothes  did  not  look  as  affluent  as  they  did 
by  gaslight.  In  a  moment  he  noticed  this  and  without  any 
overture  said  :  "  Put  your  hat  on,  my  boy,  and  come  to  my 
tailor's  and  get  fitted  out."  I  was  astonished  to  hear  him 
say  this,  and,  not  thinking  my  prospective  abilities  in  his 
service  might  deserve  such  kindness,  my  best  instincts  got 
the  momentary  upper  hand  of  those  inclinations  which  are 
usually  the  strongest  in  men  who  have  endeavoured  to  earn 
their  livelihood  by  musical  accomplishments.  So  I  at  first 
demurred,  and  then,  overjoyed,  went  with  him  to  his  tailor, 
who  lived  not  a  half-mile  off.  He  even  bought  me  india- 

184 


THE  RT.  HON.  S.  MIDDLETON 

rubber  cuffs,  and  the  day  before  the  first  lecture  came  off  I 
looked  as  well  dressed  as  anyone  in  the  district. 

On  the  morning  before  the  first  lecture  at  the  Suburban 
Hall  I  strolled  down  the  main  road  and  to  my  astonishment 
saw  my  name  in  large  type  on  big  white  bills.  If  I  remember 
aright,  this  is  how  the  advertisement  went :  "  Signor  Safroni, 
the  celebrated  Italian  violin  virtuoso,  has  kindly  consented  to 
perform  at  the  Orphanage  Fund  lectures  "  ;  and  then  followed 
an  account  of  the  lecturer's  philanthropic  and  stirring  speeches 
on  behalf  of  helpless  children.  At  first  I  felt  annoyed  at  this 
being  done  without  my  permission,  for  I  had  a  kind  of  sus- 
picion that  the  old  lecturer  thought  more  of  himself  than  of 
the  orphan  children,  and  I  did  not  want  to  be  mixed  up  with 
anything  that  was  likely  to  look  shady,  both  for  my  own 
self-respect  and  my  youthful  principles.  I  at  once  sought 
my  new  employer  and  told  him,  as  delicately  as  possible, 
that  I  did  not  care  to  be  billed  as  a  celebrated  violinist  from 
Italy,  and,  moreover,  not  so  very  far  off  was  the  very  place 
where  I  had  been  playing.  "  My  dear,  dear  boy,"  he  said, 
opening  his  eyes  as  though  with  amazement,  "  you  call  your- 
self a  violin-player  and  are  afraid  to  be  billed  ;  you  must  be 
mad  1  " 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  considerably  mollified  by  the  force 
of  his  arguments,  "  your  bill  says  :  '  The  Right  Honourable 
S.  Middleton  will  take  the  chair.'  How  can  I  be  both  ?  And 
I  know  nothing  about  taking  chairs  either."  "  Leave  it  all 
to  me  ;  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  play  the  violin  and  make 
money,"  he  said  ;  and  I  went  off,  feeling  a  little  guilty  of  in- 
gratitude, for  I  certainly  had  a  good  suit  of  clothes  on,  and 
my  expectations,  financially,  seemed  very  good. 

Before  the  concert  night  my  employer  canvassed  the 
streets,  and  indeed  the  whole  district,  and  sold  some  hundreds 
of  tickets.  Girls  even  stood  at  the  mission  rooms  and  church 
doors  and  sold  his  tickets  ;  they  were  given  special  permis- 
sion by  the  clergy,  because  of  the  noble  cause  which  my 
employer  lectured  upon. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  hall  at  the  opening  hour  I  saw  a 
vast  crowd  waiting  by  the  door.  The  old  lecturer  was  with 
me  and  rubbed  his  hands  as  we  went  round  to  the  back 

185 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

entrance  to  prepare  for  the  concert.  His  personality  was  of 
the  masterful  kind,  but,  mustering  up  my  courage,  I  at  last 
said  to  him :  "  Shall  I  have  to  take  the  chair  and  make 
a  speech  ?  "—for  I  was  still  a  little  suspicious  of  my  dual 
personality  as  an  Italian  violin  virtuoso  and  the  Right 
Honourable  S.  Middleton. 

To  my  intense  relief  he  patted  me  on  the  back  and  said  : 
"  Play  the  violin  as  well  as  you  are  able  and  I  will  do  all  the 
rest."  My  feelings  were  relieved,  and  the  thought  of  how 
much  I  should  get  from  the  shares  of  tickets  sold  cheered  me 
up  considerably.  Before  I  proceed  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
that  though  he  professed  to  lecture  for  the  benefit  of  little 
children  and  was  deeply  "  religious,"  for  he  prayed  so 
fervently  before  meals  that  I  also  prayed,  out  of  sheer  respect 
for  his  religious  earnestness,  as  far  as  I  knew  he  never  paid 
one  cent  to  any  fund  ;  neither  did  he  pay  for  the  halls  that 
he  hired,  nor  for  the  printing  of  his  preposterous  bills,  nor 
for  anything  that  became  his. 

There  was  a  special  dressing-room  in  this  hall ;  it  was  like 
a  box,  and  just  at  the  side  of  the  stage  door.  When  the  old 
lecturer  was  ready  he  gave  the  little  door-boy  twopence  and 
told  him  to  open  the  entrance  to  the  hall  and  let  the  crowd 
in  at  the  front ;  while  the  professor  at  the  back  groomed 
himself  before  his  little  pocket  mirror  and  I  combed  my 
hair. 

My  heart  began  to  beat  a  little  faster  than  usual,  for  I  heard 
the  audience  starting  to  stamp  and  cheer  with  impatience 
just  behind  the  small  door  in  front  of  me.  The  old  rogue 
said  hastily  :  "  Go  in  and  take  the  chair  and  I  will  walk  in 
behind  you."  "  Perhaps  you  had  better  go  first,"  I  said, 
and  stepped  aside.  "  No,  no,"  he  responded  quickly,  in  his 
masterful  voice,  and,  not  wishing  to  appear  nervous  the  first 
night,  I  took  a  bold  plunge  and  suddenly  appeared  before 
the  vast  crowd  of  bronzed  faces  that  made  up  that  New 
Zealand  audience.  Had  it  been  an  ordinary  solo  engage- 
ment I  should  have  had  something  to  do  and  so  have  been 
completely  at  my  ease.  But  when  the  vast  crowd  rose  in  a 
body  and  cheered  me,  thinking  that  I  had  appeared  first  to 
make  a  preliminary  speech,  ere  the  great  philanthropist 

186 


POTTED  PATHOS 

lectured  about  cruelty  to  orphan  children,  and  all  the  other 
lies  on  his  bill,  I  felt  very  ill  at  ease,  and  could  only  bow 
repeatedly  and  gaze  at  the  little  door,  hoping  my  employer 
would  step  on  the  stage.  He  did  not  appear,  and  I  think  I 
must  have  bowed  several  times  after  the  last  clapping  hand 
had  ceased  among  the  smiling  ladies  in  the  front  seats,  who 
were  gazing  upon  me  with  evident  approval,  and  at  last, 
bewildered,  I  stooped  to  open  my  violin-case.  I  was  about 
to  let  the  lecture  go  to  the  winds  and  start  a  solo  when 
suddenly  the  door  opened  at  the  side  of  me  and  the  pro- 
fessor stood  bowing  to  the  audience.  They  rose  en  masse 
and  cheered  him,  as  I  nearly  tumbled  over  my  violin  and 
sat  in  the  little  chair  which  was  the  only  furniture  of  the 
platform. 

I  felt  like  one  in  a  dream  as  I  sat  there  twirling  my  fingers, 
watching  the  old  fellow  as  his  arms  swayed  and  lifted  with 
his  grey  head  toward  the  ceiling,  and  in  fervent  tones  he  told 
the  audience  that  the  Right  Honourable  S.  Middleton  had 
been  suddenly  taken  ill,  and  that  I  had  kindly  consented  to 
take  the  chair,  as  well  as  perform  solos  on  the  violin.  I  have 
found  out  since  that  this  ruse  is  a  commonplace  excuse  for  a 
one-man  lecture  and  entertainment ;  it  saves  expenses,  and 
is  practised  at  lectures  and  concerts  throughout  the  world. 
He  was  really  a  clever  professional  liar,  and  the  way  he  held 
his  arms  aloft  and  passionately  pleaded  for  the  helpless 
children  touched  the  audience  as  though  it  throbbed  with 
one  large  heart.  It  is  a  memory  that  I  think  would  make 
the  most  credulous  nature  become  sceptical  when  listening 
to  shabbily  dressed  men  who  appeal  for  charity  beyond  their 
own  immediate  requirements.  Though  he  had  bought  me 
a  new  suit — on  credit  I  found  out  afterwards — he  did  not 
trouble  much  about  his  own  clothes,  but  depended  on  the 
pathos  of  his  voice  and  his  grey  hairs.  I  felt  suspicious  of 
the  genuineness  of  his  orphanage  appeals,  but  as  I  sat  there 
listening  to  him  a  sense  of  intense  shame  came  over  me,  for 
I,  as  well  as  the  whole  audience,  was  touched  by  the  pathos 
of  his  phrases  and  the  descriptive  figures  which  he  gave  of 
poor  little  starving  orphans  that  had  appealed  for  bread. 
Then,  with  his  hands  lifted  to  the  ceiling,  he  held  the  whole 

187 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

crowd  spellbound  as  he  described  a  dying  child's  last  look 
and  words  in  a  London  workhouse. 

As  he  finished  a  great  sigh  echoed  through  the  hall,  as 
though  it  was  one  sound  from  a  thousand  hearts  that  were 
bursting  with  emotion.  His  voice  ceased  and  he  turned  to 
me,  and  as  I  lifted  the  glass  of  water  to  his  lips  I  noticed 
that  he  had  tears  in  his  eyes  ;  for  his  imagination  had  carried 
him  out  of  himself  and  touched  him  as  well  as  me.  Then  I 
stood  up  and  played  a  solo,  after  which  I  extemporised  an 
accompaniment  to  a  sacred  song  which  he  sang  ;  for  though 
he  was  old  and  sinful  his  voice  was  mellow  and  sweet. 

He  told  me  he  was  the  last  living  member  of  the  Old 
Christy  Minstrels  of  London,  and  from  his  manner  and 
general  conversation  I  still  believe  that  assertion  of  his  was 
a  true  one.  I  asked  him  once  to  play  the  violin,  but  he  would 
not  do  so,  though  he  could  play  the  banjo  well. 

I  have  never  been  so  cheered  by  an  audience  as  I  was  that 
night.  I  was  called  and  recalled.  I  do  not  believe  it  was  so 
much  for  my  playing,  or  for  the  opinion  of  Italian  royalty  and 
the  Queen  of  England  on  my  "  wonderful  "  playing — it  was 
on  the  programme — as  for  my  being  thought  a  friend  of  that 
old  lecturer  on  dying  orphan  children.  For  before  we  played 
the  National  Anthem  he  told  them  that  I  had  consented  to 
go  with  him  through  New  Zealand  and  play  solos  purely  for 
the  sake  of  helping  unhappy  children,  and  that  I  was  to 
receive  no  salary.  I  did  not  know  how  true  it  was  when  he 
said  that,  but  I  often  think  how  fortunate  I  was  not  to  have 
been  arrested  with  him ;  for,  though  I  was  quite  innocent, 
I  believe  that  we  were  both  liable  to  penal  servitude  for 
giving  those  charitable  concerts. 

Before  the  audience  dispersed  the  lecturer  made  an  extra 
collection,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  each  member  of  the 
audience  had  paid  one  or  two  shillings  for  admittance,  and 
given  sixpence  for  a  programme ! 

At  the  hall  door,  after  all  was  over,  he  interviewed  many 
of  the  ladies  who  sought  a  personal  introduction ;  we  also 
received  many  invitations  to  call  at  their  homes,  and  my  old 
employer  seemed  quite  touched  by  the  many  sympathetic 
phrases  they  poured  in  his  ears.  When  we  were  alone  he 

188 


I  AM  RELIGIOUSLY  TOUCHED 

stood  under  a  lamp-post  and  counted  out  the  collection,  and 
though  I  lounged  by  him,  and  gave  many  hints,  he  did  not 
offer  me  a  portion,  so  I  asked  him  for  my  share  straight  out. 
He  had  promised  me  some  money  just  before  the  lecture. 
" 1  dare  not  give  it  to  you,"  he  said.  "  I  must  first  pay  for 
the  hall,  the  printing  and  the  amount  due  to  the  orphanage ; 
then,  rest  assured,  my  boy,  you  shall  get  your  share." 

Next  day  he  got  fearfully  drunk,  and  I  became  convinced 
that  he  was  not  genuine,  though  the  night  before  I  had  left 
him  thinking  that  I  must  be  mistaken  in  my  suspicions.  The 
very  boldness  of  his  bills  and  his  plans  would  have  disarmed 
older  men,  and  I  was  then  only  about  twenty-one  years  of 
age.  I  had  given  my  other  job  up  and  so,  for  the  time  being, 
I  was  compelled  to  stick  to  him.  He  rebuked  me  for  not 
saying  grace  before  my  meals,  and  I  discovered  that  he  really 
was  religious  in  the  common  sense  of  the  term  ;  we  even  had 
arguments  together  because  I  would  not  agree  with  all  he 
said.  He  was  extremely  happy  and  sang  to  himself  all  day, 
rose  at  five  o'clock  every  morning  and  splashed  water  all 
over  the  room  as  he  washed,  while  I  complained  and  begged 
for  another  hour's  rest.  I  felt  envious  and  yet  sorry  for  him, 
and  myself  too.  When  a  man  dimly  realises  his  abjectness 
in  the  flesh  he  has  begun  to  realise  his  divinity ;  the  night  of 
his  mind,  that  was  dark,  becomes  unclouded,  and  the  stars 
glimmer  forth  only  to  sadden  him.  He  does  not  feel  any 
longer  so  ready  to  criticise  the  dark  of  his  neighbour's  mind, 
which  is  still  happy  in  that  night  of  intellectual  blindness 
which  is  such  a  blessing  to  men  who  inherit  the  heavens 
through  an  acute  squint.  My  swindling  old  employer  re- 
joiced in  this  squint  to  an  abnormal  degree  ;  he  really  did 
believe  that  he  was  a  pious  and  good-living  man.  When  I 
refused  to  work  for  him,  and  told  him  he  was  a  rogue,  he 
was  so  shocked  that  I  even  relented  a  little,  and  took  his 
proffered  hand  when  I  said  good-bye.  He  seemed  to  value  my 
opinions,  though  he  did  not  agree  with  them,  and  I  honestly 
believe  that,  had  he  not  had  his  religious  aspirations  to  fall 
back  upon,  he  would  have  fallen  back  upon  himself  and  been 
a  really  good  man. 

When  he  left  the  district  his  creditors  came  down  on  me, 

189 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

and  I  had  a  lot  of  trouble  to  prevent  myself  being  arrested. 
The  tailor  who  had  supplied  my  suit  of  clothes  stopped  me 
in  the  street ;  I  lost  my  temper,  and  we  nearly  came  to  blows, 
and  I  was  almost  locked  up.  Next  morning  I  called  upon 
the  tailor  and  told  him  the  truth  ;  he  apologised  for  his  re- 
marks and  refused  to  take  more  than  half  the  money  due  for 
the  clothes,  which  I  paid  him.  I  never  saw  the  lecturer  on 
orphanages  again ;  and  as  it  was  years  ago,  and  he  was  old 
then,  I  feel  that  he  must  have  given  his  last  lecture,  closed 
his  stage  door  for  ever  and  gone  away. 


190 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Homesick — Off  to  England — At  Colombo — The  Stowaway — Home 
Again — The  Wandering  Fever  returns — Reflections — Out- 
bound for  West  Africa — On  the  West  Coast — King  Lobenguela 
— A  Native  Chief  speaks — The  Jungle — King  Buloa  and  the 
Native  Ceremony — An  African  Caprice — Music — A  White  Man 
among  Wild  Men — Nigeria — A  Native  Funeral — Night  in  the 
Jungle — Gold  Mines — The  African  Drum 

ABOUT  this  time  I  became  homesick  and  tried  to  find 
a  berth  on  one  of  the  homebound  boats.  I  eventu- 
ally secured  a  job  on  a  tramp  steamer,  the  s.s.  P . 

There  was  nothing  exceptional  on  the  trip  except  the  mono- 
tony of  the  ship's  routine.  We  called  at  Hobart,  Tasmania, 
and  after  experiencing  stiflingly  hot  weather  crossing  the 
Indian  Ocean  eventually  arrived  at  Colombo.  The  natives 
came  clambering  on  board  and  attempted  to  take  possession 
of  all  our  portable  property.  They  are  a  dark  mahogany- 
coloured  people,  a  cheerful-looking  folk.  All  their  actions 
seem  to  be  guided  by  a  strong  commercial  instinct.  Loaded 
with  bunches  of  bananas,  and  baskets  of  oranges  and  limes, 
they  ran  about  the  decks,  bargaining  for  old  shirts  and  cast- 
off  clothing.  Over  the  vessel's  side  floated  their  outrigger 
catamarans,  swarming  with  dark,  almost  nude  men  and 
women.  Swimming  in  the  sea  were  their  children,  shouting, 
"  I  dive,  I  dive,"  as  they  looked  up  to  the  passengers  on  deck, 
who  threw  pennies  into  the  sea.  As  the  coin  reached  the 
water  down  went  their  heads  and  up  their  legs,  as  like  frogs 
they  all  dived  down  into  the  depths  in  a  mad  race  to  secure 
the  coveted  coin,  which  is  never  lost.  At  the  moment 
when  it  seems  impossible  for  them  to  live  so  long  under  the 
water  the  calm  surface  of  the  sea  trembles  at  the  spot  where 
the  coin  was  thrown  in  and  up  come  a  score  of  frizzly  heads 
from  the  ocean's  depth,  and  the  winner  holds  the  prize 
between  his  teeth. 

191 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

About  a  week  or  so  after  leaving  Colombo  we  entered  the 
Suez  Canal.  It  was  night.  As  the  boats  enter  the  canal  a 
searchlight  is  fixed  on  to  the  fo'c'sle  head  to  illumine  the 
narrow  waterway  that  flows  ninety  miles  across  the  desert. 
It  must  be  an  impressive  sight  from  the  desert,  the  steamer 
going  across  like  some  mammoth  beast,  with  a  monster  eye 
in  front  and  the  port-holes  pulsing  light  in  the  iron  sides  as 
the  steamer  moves  along. 

I  remember  one  incident  that  happened  before  we  passed 
the  canal  that  night.  I  was  standing  by  the  starboard  alley- 
way dreaming,  and  watching  the  stars  glittering  over  the 
desert,  as  the  engines  took  the  steamer  along  at  about  four 
knots  an  hour,  when  a  rustling  noise  behind  some  barrels 
startled  me.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  the  decks  were  silent, 
for  most  of  the  passengers  were  asleep.  Wondering  what 
on  earth  could  be  stirring  in  the  gloom,  I  leaned  forward  and 
saw  two  bright  eyes  looking  out  between  some  casks,  and  a 
soft  voice  crying  out  said  something  to  me  in  a  language  which 
I  did  not  understand.  It  was  a  pretty  little  Arab  maid,  a 
stowaway,  who  had  crept  on  board  at  Ismailia,  where  we  had 
stopped  for  one  hour.  I  lifted  her  up  tenderly  ;  she  was  as 
black-skinned  as  night  and  only  wore  a  tiny  loin-cloth.  She 
raised  her  bright  eyes  and  was  crying ;  but  I  took  her  along 
the  alleyway  and  down  below,  and  by  kindness  reassured 
her.  We  gave  her  a  good  feed  and  then,  tired  out,  she  fell 
asleep  in  my  bunk,  and  I  slept  on  the  sea-chests  in  the  cabin. 
In  the  morning  she  danced  to  us  in  our  berth  and  caused  us 
great  merriment.  We  sneaked  her  ashore  at  Port  Said,  where 
she  had  friends  ;  she  had  stowed  away  so  as  to  reach  them. 
We  gave  her  plenty  of  food  to  take  off  with  her,  and  we  were 
sorry  to  see  her  go  ;  she  was  only  about  seven  years  old  ! 

Three  weeks  after  leaving  Port  Said  we  arrived  in  England 
and  berthed  at  Tilbury  Docks.  The  atmosphere  of  primeval 
lands,  shining  under  tropic  suns  and  glorious  stars,  faded 
to  a  far-off  dream  as  the  dull,  drab-grey  of  English  skies 
drenched  the  wharves  and  the  shouting  dock  labourers. 

As  the  days  wore  on  once  again  the  roaming  fever  turned 
my  thoughts  to  the  sea,  with  all  the  splendour  of  its  grand 

192 


THE  GREAT  HARLOT 

uncertainty,  its  devilish  irony  and  vicissitudes.  Though 
the  glamour  of  romance  had  faded,  yet  my  wanderings  and 
turbulent  experiences  had  completely  unsettled  me  ;  indeed 
they  had  unfitted  me  for  the  humdrum  commercial  exist- 
ence which  I  should  have  had  to  follow  had  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  settle  in  my  own  country,  assume  respectability, 
and  hide,  as  beneath  a  cloak,  my  inherent  vagabond 
nature.  The  feathered  quill  pen  at  the  desk  would  have 
fluttered  to  fly,  held  by  my  sympathetic  hand. 

The  old  wandering  fever  still  gripped  me.  I  was  always 
wanting  to  be  off  into  the  uncertainty,  to  be  buffeting  round 
the  capes  of  unknown  seas,  exploring  for  the  marvellous 
unexpected,  standing  on  the  decks  of  imagination,  under  the 
flying  moonlit  sails  of  glorious  illusion,  singing  wild,  mad 
chanteys  over  wonderful  argosies  of  schemes  that  could 
never  be  realised ! 

Yes,  to  be  ashore  on  some  far-away  isle,  clasping  the 
savage  maid  in  your  arms  by  the  coco-palms,  gazing  in  the 
delicious  orbs  of  the  Universe — infinity  in  beams  of  eyelight. 
To  breathe  the  present,  yet  be  alive  in  the  past,  far  away 
down  the  centuries  of  the  modern  dark  ages  !  To  walk  by 
primeval  forest  and  tumbling  moonlit  seas  where  they  break 
over  coral  reefs.  To  rest  by  camp  fires  and  huts,  talking  with 
bush  women  and  men,  and  girls  with  sparkling  eyes,  eyes 
clear  as  heaven  with  her  moon  and  stars.  To  be  back  in 
the  splendid  aboriginal  darkness  of — as  it  was  in  the 
beginning. 

Yet  alas  !  as  I  dream  the  faint,  immodest  blush  of  dawn 
tints  the  distant  sky-line.  It  is  the  birth  of  grief  and  beauty ; 
awakening  sunrise  is  agleam  in  her  warm  eyes  ;  her  sandals 
are  dipped  in  fire  and  the  stars  are  in  her  hair.  Onward  she 
creeps,  in  the  beauty  of  her  maiden  nakedness,  cloaked  in 
glorious,  unreal  tinsel  and  grief.  Blushing  like  a  goddess  she 
comes,  treading  the  sky  !  The  glorious,  wonderful  harlot — 
Civilisation ! 

It  was  a  grey  day  when  I  next  found  myself  outbound, 
going  down  Channel  on  a  tramp  steamer  for  the  Canary 
Isles  and  Sierra  Leone.  I  had  often  wished  to  go  to 

N  193 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

West  Africa,  and  so,  when  the  opportunity  came,  I  did 
not  hesitate. 

I  will  not  dwell  at  any  length  on  the  events  that  preceded 
my  arrival  on  the  West  Coast,  but  will  briefly  give  my  im- 
pression of  things  as  they  appeared  to  me  in  those  days. 

You  cannot,  however  imaginative  you  may  be,  imagine 
you  are  elsewhere  than  on  the  Gold  Coast.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  moist  jungle,  the  barbarian  hubbub  of  excited  native 
voices,  the  beating  of  the  tom-toms  in  the  far-off  villages,  the 
toiling  natives,  driven  by  the  loud-voiced  white  overseer  of 
the  gold  mines,  continually  remind  you  that  you  are  in  the 
barbarian  paradise  of  unconventionality. 

For  miles  and  miles  the  primeval  jungle  stretches ;  and 
standing  on  the  hill-tops  you  can  see  the  far-off  native  huts 
looking  like  groups  of  peg-tops  against  the  sunset. 

On  the  higher  slopes,  by  the  gold  mines,  stand  the  bungalows 
of  the  white  men.  They  are  comfortable  inside  and  well 
furnished,  sheltered  from  the  blazing  sunlight  by  mahogany 
and  palm  trees.  The  white  men  who  are  employed  on  the 
mines  loaf  about  near  them  and  the  Gold  Coast  natives  supply 
their  wants.  For  a  brass  ring,  or  a  piece  of  sham  jewellery, 
they  can  purchase  native  labour,  and  for  a  pound  or  so  buy 
dusky  female  slaves,  whom  they  call  "  Mammies."  Virtue 
is  not  the  most  prominent  characteristic  of  Gold  Coast 
natives. 

As  the  white  men  sit  in  those  bungalows  by  night  they  can 
hear  the  native  drums  beating  far  away,  and  watch  the 
lizards  and  scorpions  slipping  across  the  moonlight  of  their 
bedroom  walls,  and,  maybe,  hear  their  comrade  in  the  next 
bungalow  raving  in  the  delirium  of  fever.  Malaria,  black- 
water  fever  and  other  things  often  end  the  exile's  career. 
At  night  the  living  can  dream  and  think  of  home,  and  watch 
from  their  bungalow  doors  the  little  white  stones  and  crosses 
glimmering  in  the  African  moonlight  in  the  hollows  where 
the  homesick  dead  white  men  lie  asleep. 

Though  the  gold  mines  lay  all  round,  gold  was  not  the 
essential  requirement.  A  bottle  of  English  beer,  placed  on  a 
post  by  a  bungalow  or  graveyard,  would  make  a  dead  white 
man  sit  up  and  grasp  it.  Missionaries  had  been  on  the 

194 


SETTLER'S  HOME,  GOLD  COAST 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE 

Gold  Coast  for  years  trying  to  reform  the  natives,  who  many 
of  them  had  embraced  Christianity.  They  often  asked  us 
mysterious  questions  about  the  white  man's  land,  as  though 
they  were  puzzled  and  could  not  fathom  the  meaning  of  it 
all.  They  had  a  faint  idea  that  England  was  a  land  of  some 
beautiful  Golden  Age,  where  sin  was  unknown ;  otherwise, 
why  did  the  white  men  come  across  the  seas  to  preach  to 
them  when  the  natives  were  so  contented  with  their  lot,  and 
wished  the  missionaries  to  hell  ?  So  spoke  King  Lobenguela. 
He  was  a  powerful  fellow  and  when  he  walked  looked  very 
majestic,  as  he  trailed  his  heavy  blanket  behind  him.  He 
lived  in  a  palatial  kraal  and  had  a  multitude  of  slaves,  who 
washed  his  feet  continually.  He  had  embraced  Christianity, 
and  went  off  across  the  jungle  to  the  mission  room  three 
times  daily,  and  all  day  on  Sunday.  He  was  a  typical 
specimen  of  African  aristocrat  and  spoke  fairly  good 
English.  His  one  intense  wish  was  to  see  English  royalty, 
and  confer  some  honourable  degree  upon  them  for  bringing 
to  his  dominion  salvation  and  Sacramental  rum,  which  he 
drank  by  the  barrel.  The  one  ambition  of  the  chiefs  seemed 
to  be  to  take  the  Sacrament.  There  they  are  out  there,  with 
all  the  old  instincts  very  much  the  same,  notwithstanding 
the  introduction  of  Christianity.  When  the  white  races 
have  educated  them,  and  equipped  them  with  scientific 
weapons  of  warfare,  who  knows  ?  They  may  assert  their 
individuality,  and  strive  to  get  their  stolen  countries  back 
again.  The  truth  is  often  spoken  in  earnest !  It  is  as  well 
to  remember  that  in  those  vast  African  territories  many 
millions  of  fine  native  men  dwell,  with  a  muscular  power  and 
patriotism  equal  to  that  of  the  peoples  of  civilised  lands. 
The  moving  finger  of  Destiny  has  always  suddenly  pointed 
to  the  hour  of  mighty  events,  with  an  ironical  grin  at  our 
unprepared  consternation. 

The  West  African  bush-land  is  the  wildest  under  the  sun. 
Nothing  but  short  bush  jungle  and  vast  forests  meets  your 
gaze  as  you  wander  on  from  sky-line  to  sky-line  in  your 
caravan,  and,  as  a  ship  passes  islands  on  the  trackless  South 
Seas,  often  you  pass  a  native  village  and  hear  the  tom-toms 
beating  away  at  their  mysterious  sound  codes. 

195 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

In  those  isolated  villages,  far  beyond  the  outposts  of 
civilisation,  you  will  sometimes  come  across  a  white  man 
who  dwells  alone  with  his  memories.  Sunk  to  a  semi- 
barbarian  state,  they  live  with  the  natives,  who  have  a  deep 
reverence  for  them  and  their  superior  knowledge.  They  live 
on  mealie  broth  and  nut  milk,  and  dress  in  the  native  style. 
When  the  white  stranger  from  far  off  is  seen  approaching  the 
native  village  he  is  carefully  scanned  through  a  telescope 
by  the  white  exile  ere  the  latter  shows  himself  outside  the 
native  kraals. 

Men  of  the  civilised  Western  cities  do  not  dream  of  the  sad 
dramas  of  life  that  are  hidden  away  from  their  knowledge 
far  beyond  the  outposts  of  advanced  civilisation.  London 
audiences  cheer  and  weep  in  the  theatres  as  the  curtain  drops 
before  the  footlights  over  the  mock-hero's  grief.  But  oh  !  if 
they  knew  of  the  great  unknown,  the  sorrowful  dramas 
behind  the  awful  curtain  of  reality. 

While  I  was  on  the  coast  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  an 
elderly  tourist  who  was  gathering  material  for  a  book  of 
experiences.  He  was  extremely  fond  of  music,  cheerful,  and 
a  keen  observer  of  character.  When  he  proposed  to  me  that 
I  should  accompany  him  on  his  travels  I  was  very  delighted 
and  at  once  agreed.  We  went  by  boat  round  the  coast — he 
paid  all  my  expenses — and  visited  a  host  of  villages,  finally 
going  as  far  as  Bamban  and  Krue,  and  many  places  whose 
names  I  have  now  forgotten. 

I  remember  many  incidents  of  those  early  days,  especially 
a  white-whiskered  old  chief  whose  name  was  Tamban.  He 
was  about  seventy  years  of  age,  and  had  a  wrinkled,  wise- 
looking  face  and  a  bald  pate.  He  loved  to  sit  by  his 
kraal,  wrapped  in  his  big  brown  blanket,  and  speak  native 
wisdom. 

He  was  dead  against  the  white  men,  and  at  heart  was  a 
genuine  old  heathen,  and  no  fool  either.  Though  he  pro- 
fessed to  have  embraced  Christianity,  and  possessed  a  Bible, 
he  had  sold  many  square  miles  of  his  dominion  to  white  men, 
over  and  over  again  signing  the  documentary  deeds,  with 
many  expressions  of  loyalty  and  blessings  on  the  great  white 
Queen.  It  was  afterwards  found  out  that  he  had  sold  the 

196 


A  HEATHEN'S  WISDOM 

same  land  to  scores  of  different  white  speculators,  who 
opened  syndicates  in  London  and  sold  shares  to  the 
unwaiy. 

When  he  was  in  liquor  he  would  reveal  the  true  thoughts 
that  burnt  silently  within  him  and  longed  for  utterance. 
"  Heathen,  me  !  forsooth,  ah  !  ah  !  measly,  white-faced 
goat!"  he  would  shout  when  the  missionary  approached  him. 
"  Bring  forth  the  mealie  broth  and  rum,  that  I  may  toast 
these  white  skunks  speedily  to  their  hell !  "  And  saying 
that  he  would  turn  his  dark,  wrinkled  face  to  the  blue  tropical 
sky  and  lift  his  war-club,  and  off  rushed  his  womenkind  from 
the  kraal  to  do  his  bidding. 

Then  he  would  turn  to  the  white  missionary,  who  stood 
with  his  broad-brimmed  Panama  hat  tilted  forward  to  hide 
the  grin  on  his  lips,  and  thunder  forth,  his  big  black  lips 
fairly  flopping  with  drunken  passion :  "  Who  is  this  white 
God  that  you  prate  about  ?  Liar !  Show  me  this  one 
shadow  that  is  better  than  my  fifty  gods  !  Show  me  Him, 
and  I  will  crush  Him  as  I  do  this  struggling  flea  !  "  and  say- 
ing this  he  pulled  his  dirty  blanket  the  tighter  round  him 
and  then  held  up  to  our  gaze  a  flea  between  his  thumb  and 
forefinger.  Then,  with  a  sneer  on  his  lips  and  much  blas- 
phemy, he  would  continue :  "  Give  up  my  fifty  gods  and 
trust  to  one  indeed ! "  and  then  down  he  would  crash  his 
club,  as  all  his  old  wives,  squatting  by  the  kraal,  quivered 
in  their  skins.  "  Ah  !  ah  !  "  he  said,  and  his  bright  eyes 
winked  humorously  at  the  harem  queen,  a  dusky  beauty  as 
black  and  bare  as  starlit  night  swathed  in  a  wisp  of  vapour ; 
"  pass  me  the  bowl  full,  filled  to  the  rim,  mind  you."  Then 
he  would  smack  his  big  lips  together  and  mutter  :  "  Tribes- 
men, the  white  man's  rum  speaks  more  truth  than  his  God  of 
lies."  The  foregoing  gives  a  pretty  fair  example  of  the  real 
character  of  those  old  native  chiefs  and  kings,  who  still 
cling  to  their  old  beliefs  and  yet  profess  Christianity  in 
much  the  same  manner  as  they  do  in  the  islands  of  the 
South  Seas. 

My  friend  and  I  were  always  on  the  move,  sometimes 
riding  and  at  other  times  walking.  We  tramped  along 
jungle  track  for  many  miles  and  often  passed  natives  who 

197 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

over  his  shoulder  walked  in  front  of  us,  to  lead  the  way  to  the 
jungle  ballroom. 

I  saw  a  sight  that  night  which  outdid,  in  grotesqueness 
and  lewdness,  anything  which  I  had  seen  in  the  South  Seas. 
The  royal  opera  box  was  a  square-rigged  set  of  bamboo  poles 
lashed  together  with  strong  native  fibre.  Mats  slung  over 
the  cross-bars  made  comfortable  seats,  elevated  about  six 

feet,  whereon  Mr  T and  I  sat,  and  the  chief  with  crossed 

legs  in  the  middle. 

Four  native  girls  had  just  reached  maidenhood  and 
had  been  sold  to  four  respective  husbands  for  so  many 
bullocks.  It  was  the  custom  to  confer  on  such  maidens 
an  honour  which,  to  Western  civilisation,  was  one  of  great 
degradation  and  shame.  Afterwards  the  girls  were  brought 
forth  to  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  cleared  jungle,  so  that  the 
whole  tribe  could  gaze  upon  them  as  the  festival  dancers 
whirled  round  them.  There  they  stood  before  us,  revealing 
a  similar  timidness  to  that  seen  in  a  young  bride  at  an  English 
wedding.  The  King  started  the  applause  by  striking  a  huge 
bamboo  rod  on  the  side  of  the  primitive  opera  box  as  he 
drank  large  bowls  of  palm  wine.  He  was  soon  drunk,  reeled 
and  shouted :  "  Fu  Fu,  Ki  Ki !  "  The  glimpsing  moonlight 
streamed  through  the  palms  on  to  the  maidens'  faces  and 
on  to  the  dark  hordes  of  shrieking  natives  who  whirled 
around  them.  Those  erstwhile  maids  stood  embracing  each 
other,  then  unclasped,  chanted  and  clapped  their  hands  in 
rhythmic  motion,  and  then,  to  the  delight  of  the  assembly, 
imitated  every  gross  gesture. 

My  friend  kept  close  to  me  and  I  to  him  as  the  besotted 
King  slipped  off  his  seat  and  fell  on  to  the  next  rung,  still 
shouting :  "  Ki  Ki !  "  One  of  the  maidens  was  really  hand- 
some for  a  negress ;  she  had  fine  eyes,  full  lips  and  a  well- 
rounded  figure  of  light  mahogany  colour  ;  the  curves  of  her 
body  resembled  a  Grecian  bronze.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
perfectly  still  in  the  moonlight,  with  one  knee  timidly  cross- 
ing the  other,  ere  she  turned  to  show  her  comeliness  to  the 
admiring  audience !  As  they  sang  the  native  orchestra 
crashed  away  on  tom-toms  and  wooden  drums.  Some 
plucked  strings  that  were  stretched  across  gourds ;  others 

200 


AN  AFRICAN  FESTIVAL 

blew,  with  their  big  black  lips,  at  bamboo  flutes.  They 
played  out  of  tune,  but  the  tempo  of  the  primitive  strains 
suited  the  dance  exactly.  "  Mvu  !  Mvu  ! "  shouted  the 
King,  and  then  he  made  signs  that  I  should  play.  Without 
a  moment's  hesitation  I  held  the  violin  to  my  chin  and 
played  like  a  happy  barbarian,  though  my  heart  thumped 
with  apprehension. 

Again  they  danced  as  I  played  on,  and  through  my  brain 
flashed  reminiscences  of  my  tribal  solos  in  Samoa  and  else- 
where. Suddenly  the  circling  ring  opened  and  from  a  hut 
close  by  came  the  dancers  for  the  second  act.  By  the  throne 
they  ran,  dressed  in  grotesque  festival  costume,  painted  in 
hideous  lines  of  white  from  head  to  foot.  They  looked  like 
hordes  of  skeletons  from  the  tribal  cemetery  jumping  round 
living  maidens.  So  rhythmically  did  they  whirl,  and  so  fan- 
tastic was  the  sight,  that  they  seemed  monstrous  puppets 
strung  on  wires  pulled  by  some  mysterious  hand  in  the  dark 
jungle ;  for  often  they  would  stop  perfectly  still,  and  then 
in  the  moonlight  once  more  whirl  away.  How  the  audience 
of  men,  women  and  children  stared  and  clapped  as  they 
squatted  on  their  haunches  on  mats ;  and  they  encored  just 
as  they  do  in  the  music  halls  of  London  town  when  the 
ladies  in  tights  whirl  and  jump  before  fascinated  audiences. 

There  I  sat  with  T ,  gasping  with  curiosity  as  the 

King  thumped,  and  playing  on,  far  happier  than  when, 
dressed  in  an  evening  suit  and  tight,  high  collar,  I  fiddled  in 
city  orchestras,  playing  every  night  the  accompaniments  of 
the  poor  hits  of  the  day  to  affected  stage  voices. 

Notwithstanding  the  apparent  lewdness,  their  innocence 
almost  sanctified  the  smiling  scene  of  dark  faces,  and  I 
realised  that  it  was  but  a  custom  truthfully  expressing 
primeval  man's  original  idea  of  the  beautiful.  So  we  were 
not  shocked,  though  we  drank  deep  from  the  whisky  flask 
to  steady  our  nerves  ere  the  head  chief  sucked  at  it. 

The  tribe  encored  me,  and  I  played  again.  To  my  surprise 
they  got  hold  of  the  wild  chorus  of  the  Scotch  reels  and 
whirled  around,  shrieking  it  I  They  had  musical  voices  and, 
I  believe,  good  ears.  The  melodies  they  sang  resembled 
wild  laughter  in  song  ;  the  tom-toms  banged  and  the  flutes 

201 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

screamed  between.    This  is  the  mirth  music  as  I  memorised 
it: 


Laughter. 


AFRICAN   CAPRICE. 


A.  S.  M. 


,    fg- fffrMgg.  fa  ^         ,    .?  >. 


/  Vivace. 


•ff         Tom  Toms. 


-— 1  — , *— i a 1 — ^ — » ^— *r^ r*r i • 1 1 


Reproduced  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  P.  PITMAN  HART  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  London,  B.OL 

Next  day  we  were  taken  round  the  village  and  entered 
many  of  the  native  homes.  They  were  snug  enough,  with 
sleeping-mats  and  bamboo  furniture,  and  many  boxes  with 
little  mats  on  them.  In  the  corners  were  maize,  yams,  kola- 
nuts  and  gin  bottles  ;  the  chief  ornaments  were  the  skulls  of 
dead  relatives.  Comfortable  kraals  they  were,  though  the 
furniture  seemed  scanty  and  reminded  me  of  the  homes  of 
struggling  authors,  poets  and  musicians  in  the  large  cities  of 
the  world.  But  these  were  happier  homes ;  for  the  heads 
of  the  families  were  unambitious,  save  that  they  prayed  for 
copious  rains  to  fall  on  their  yams  and  mealie  patches.  The 
richer  natives  wore  ornamental  garments  and  had  honours 

203 


AN  EL  DORADO  FOR  POETS 

conferred  on  them,  such  as  foot-washer  or  mosquito-squasher 
to  the  King.  Real  poverty  seemed  unknown,  and  decrepi- 
tude and  the  complainings  of  old  age  ceased  with  the  blow  of 
a  war-club. 

Artists  engraved  pottery,  and  musicians  were  much 
appreciated.  Poets  were  applauded,  and  in  all  the  villages 
I  came  across  were  looked  upon  as  exiled  gods.  When  they 
spoke  their  wisdom  and  native  lore  were  listened  to  with 
rapt  attention,  as  though  the  great  god  Abassi  had  spoken : 
a  strong  contrast  to  the  neglected  poets  of  civilised  lands, 
where  poetic  voices  cry  in  the  wilderness  to  deaf  ears. 
William  Watson,  Robert  Bridges,  Chesterton,  Blakemore, 
and  all  the  other  voices  of  modern  music  would  have  found 
a  large  measure  of  appreciation  in  that  land,  had  they  been 
born  there ;  for  it  was  an  El  Dorado  for  poets.  As  for  John 
Masefield  and  Kipling,  they  would  have  stood  on  stumps 
and  sung  till  all  the  coast  villagers,  through  sheer  poetic 
delirium,  put  out  to  sea  for  other  lands  and  wild,  poetic 
adventure. 

Lovers  of  Wagner  would  have  rejoiced  to  hear  the  strange 
primeval  music,  music  that  expressed  the  true  barbarian 
note  of  joyous  or  wailing  humanity  ;  and  after  hearing  that 
which  I  heard  they  would  more  easily  have  understood  the 
deeper  meaning  of  the  celebrated  maestro 's  compositions. 

I  played  several  solos  to  the  King  next  day  as  he  sat  in  his 
hut-room,  and  he  touched  me  with  a  dead  king's  thigh  bone 
on  the  neck,  and  so  gave  me  the  equivalent  to  a  British 
knighthood.  We  were  taken  before  the  favourite  harem 
queens  ;  they  blushed  and  smiled,  showing  their  white  teeth, 

as  T and  I  bowed  and  gesticulated  our  appreciation  of 

their  dusky  beauty. 

With  all  their  apparent  sins  they  seemed  deeply  religious. 
We  knew  not  what  their  creeds  expressed,  or  on  what 
mythology  they  were  founded.  We  only  knew  that  Abassi 
and  Sowoko  were  great  gods,  and  their  subjects  were  life  and 
death,  as  in  all  creeds  they  must  be.  Their  Ju-Jus  were 
hideous  enough  to  express  the  agony  and  ultimate  end  of  all 
we  know  and  all  that  is  born  of  flesh.  The  Ju-Jus  they  knelt 
before  were  as  deaf  to  their  appeals  as  the  images  of  the  Virgin 

203 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Mary  and  other  idols  of  Catholic  and  Protestant  high 
churches  are. 

When  we  left  King  Buloa  we  wandered  on  mile  after  mile 
and  continually  entered  other  countries ;  for  you  cross 
frontier  lines  at  every  river  and  swamp,  and  come  across 
tribes  who  speak  a  different  dialect  and  worship  off-shoot 
gods:  the  Akanaka  tribe,  Egbosh,  Apiaongs  and  many  others. 
On  the  rivers  sailed  dug-out  canoes,  long  enough  to  hold 
from  twelve  to  fifteen  natives,  and  smaller  canoes  wherein 
ebony  youths  paddled  their  sweethearts  and  sang  the  latest 
tribal  hits. 

All  the  villages  were  familiar  with  white  men,  for  traders 
came  long  distances,  from  Sierra  Leone  or  the  Gold  Coast, 
and  from  Calabar,  to  bargain  for  copra  and  palm-nuts  and 
many  other  things. 

Slavery  was  in  vogue,  and  rich  chiefs  bought  young  girls 
and  youths  and  took  them  into  their  homes.  I  saw  a  witch 
scene,  much  like  the  scenes  I  had  seen  in  Fiji ;  hideous  old 
women  and  men  consulted  the  Ju-Ju,  then  haunted  the 
credulous  natives  with  lying  stories  and  prophecies  of  good 
and  bad  things. 

I  played  the  violin  to  several  tribes,  with  the  special  idea 
of  seeing  how  my  music  appealed  to  them.  Some  were 
curious  only,  and  others  seemed  to  enjoy  the  melodies.  A 
native  girl  from  Sierra  Leone  sang  as  I  played,  and  had  a 
really  fine  voice,  with  an  earnest  note  in  it.  I  think  the 
West  African  natives,  on  the  whole,  have  good,  musical  ears 
and  a  genuine  love  for  music,  greater  than  that  of  the  English 
people.  I  have  heard  native  military  bands  perform,  and 
heard  no  difference  in  the  playing  when  compared,  of  course, 
with  amateur  bands  in  Great  Britain. 

In  one  native  village  we  discovered  a  white  man  living. 
He  was  about  fifty  years  of  age,  and  very  grey  and  sunburnt. 
At  first  he  was  reticent,  but  T got  him  on  some  interest- 
ing topic,  and  I  played  the  fiddle,  and  then  he  opened  out. 
I  cannot  tell  his  name  or  what  he  said.  He  was  not  hiding, 
but  was  sick  of  life  and  wished  to  end  his  days  out  there 
with  those  wild  men.  I  can  still  see  his  blue  eyes  gazing 
at  us,  among  the  black  ones,  as  the  natives  stood  by 

204 


MY  COMRADE  AND  I  BLUSH ! 

their  village  huts  and  waved  good-bye  as  we  tramped 
off. 

The  population  of  Ashanti  was  very  mixed.  Moors, 
Mohammedans,  negroes,  Arabs  and  many  more,  who  had 
emigrated  across  the  Sahara  to  the  West  Coast  in  ages  past, 
had  left  their  types  in  the  blood  of  the  natives. 

We  went  to  Accra,  Akamabu  and  Sekondi,  where  we 
stayed  with  an  old  chief  who  was  about  eighty  or  ninety 
years  of  age.  He  had  white  whiskers,  and  was  shrivelled  up 
like  a  mummy,  but  he  was  a  most  interesting  man  and  spoke 
good  English.  He  had  fought  under  King  Osae  Tutu,  the 
Ashanti  king  who  in  1822  defeated  the  British,  who  in  turn 
revenged  themselves  in  1826  on  the  Pra  river. 

Finally  T and  I  took  boat  for  Lagos  and  arrived  on 

the  coast  of  Nigeria,  where  we  saw  native  life  and  tropical 
bush  that  differed  very  little  from  that  which  I  have  already 
described.  All  the  villages  were  similar,  and  their  semi- 
barbarian  population  lived  under  their  old  customs,  modified 
to  suit  the  requirements  of  the  British  Commissioners.  The 
natives  all  seemed  prosperous  and  fat ;  rent  and  clothes  did 
not  trouble  them,  so  they  traded,  and  kept  the  proceeds  for 
their  immediate  requirements.  The  bush  was  dotted  with 
mahogany,  ebony,  camwood  and  yellow- wood  trees ;  rubber 
and  oil-palm  were  cultivated. 

Long  stretches  of  dry  weather  prevailed,  and  then  a 
thunder-storm  came  along  and  seemed  to  shake  the  very 
mountains  ;  the  natives  put  their  gourds  and  calabashes  out 
and  the  deluge  filled  them  in  five  minutes.  Rivers  that  were 
tiny  brooks  rose  in  half-an-hour  and  tore  along  in  foaming, 

swirling  torrents,  washing  a  village  away.  T and  I 

saved  the  life  of  a  native  child  as  it  passed  us  on  the  thunder- 
ing flood ;  it  was  still  in  its  sleeping-basket  and  looked  up 
and  yawned,  only  that  moment  wakened  from  sleep,  as  we 
grabbed  it  and  pulled  it  ashore.  The  naked  mother  came 
flying  towards  us,  waving  her  arms ;  when  she  saw  her  baby, 
and  realised  we  had  saved  it,  she  embraced  us  and  wailed 

with  gratitude.  We  blushed,  and  after  the  storm  T 

got  his  camera  ready  and  took  her  photograph.  She 
was  extremely  self-possessed ;  indeed  semi- savage  African 

205 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

women  lack  the  virtue  that  white  women  have — their  colour 
does  not  reveal  their  blushes. 

One  day  we  saw  a  native  funeral ;  I  think  it  was  at  a 
village  called  Awakar.  We  were  walking  along  a  jungle 
track  some  miles  from  Ediba,  on  the  Cross  river,  when  we 
came  to  the  village.  It  was  the  evening,  in  drought  weather, 
and  we  smelt  the  village  as  we  approached  the  clearing. 
The  village  orchestra  was  in  full  swing.  Drums,  native 
pipes,  clappers,  tom-toms  and  bamboo  rattlers,  horns  made 
of  elephant  tusks,  all  were  being  used,  and  made,  as  you  can 
imagine,  a  weirdly  impressive  combination  of  sounds.  A 
chief  was  being  carried  to  his  last  resting-place.  We  were 
deeply  interested  in  the  scene  that  met  our  curious  gaze. 
Wailing  old  men  carried  the  coffin  slowly  along,  and  kept 
spitting,  for  the  weather  was  muggy  and  hot.  The  chief  had 
been  dead  some  days  ;  the  coffin  lid  was  unfastened,  and  we 
could  see  the  dark,  frizzly  hair  of  the  dead  chief's  head  at  one 
end  and  the  toes  at  the  other.  Myriads  of  winged  insects 
and  flies  buzzed  above  the  body  and  the  procession  as  it 
moved  along.  The  head  chief,  who  was  just  behind,  kept 
drinking  tumbo  (palm  wine),  which  an  ebony  girl  handed  to 
him ;  and  they  followed  him  with  a  large  calabash  full  to 

supply  his  thirst.  T and  I  kept  to  the  windward  of  the 

procession,  and  puffed  vigorously  at  our  pipes,  and  holding 
our  noses  we  walked  just  by  the  side  of  the  native  military 
band,  that  played  the  death  march  behind  the  group. 
Right  ahead  of  the  procession,  just  in  front  of  the  hearse  of 
wailing  natives,  walked  eight  elderly,  stalwart  chiefs,  who 
carried  a  monstrous  Ju-Ju.  Its  hideous,  half -human  face, 
with  big  glass  eyes,  stared  backwards  at  the  coffin  and  the 
procession  as  the  whole  group  moved  along.  "  Give  me  a 

pull  at  your  flask,  T ,"  I  said  ;  immediately  he  handed  it 

to  me  and  then  took  a  gulp  himself.  Presently  the  procession 
stopped  at  the  far  end  of  the  village  before  a  large  hut.  We 
made  inquiries,  and  found  it  was  the  corpse's  late  homestead  : 
the  custom  was  to  bury  him  under  the  floor. 

As  they  stopped,  the  sweating  hearse  of  twenty  mouths 
spat,  and  they  lowered  their  grim  burden  before  the  hut- 
tomb.  All  the  mourners  commenced  a  weird  monotone  of 

206 


A  HEATHEN  FUNERAL 

melody,  a  melody  that  had  bars  in  it  resembling  an  English 
hymn.  As  we  stood  at  the  end  of  the  village  watching  that 
heathenish  burial,  and  the  high  priest  lifted  his  hands  and 
chin  up  to  the  big  Ju-Ju's  wooden  face  in  earnest  supplication 
to  the  gods  for  that  dead  man  of  his  diocese,  the  scent  of  the 
jungle  blooms  came  in  whiffs  to  our  nostrils.  Sunset  was 
fading,  and  as  the  coffin  disappeared  in  the  doorway,  and 
darkness  drifted  over  the  whole  scene,  I  seemed  to  be  standing 
in  the  dark  ages,  alone  in  some  vast  dream  of  life's  sad  drama. 
But  the  jungle  bird  in  the  mahogany-tree  started  to  sing 
sweetly,  and  then  reality  stole  over  the  village,  and  I  heard 
the  wails  of  the  mourners  sorrowing  over  the  blight  of  creation ; 
real  sorrow  it  was,  and  for  all  its  grotesqueness  the  same  as 
the  sorrow  of  the  civilised  races.  Still  the  bird  sang  over  my 
head ;  it  was  a  jungle  nightingale  passionately  pouring  forth 
melody  as  the  native  voices  afar  died  away ;  and  I  dreamed 

on  till  T touched  me  on  the  arm,  for  it  was  getting  late 

and  we  did  not  wish  to  stay  on  in  that  particular  village. 

We  slept  that  night  in  another  village  called,  I  think, 
Eko.  I  shall  always  remember  it  because  of  the  look  on 
my  friend's  face  as  I  shaved  him.  We  only  had  one  razor 

between  us,  and  that  was  rusty.  T was  terribly  scrubby 

and  he  said  :  "  Can  you  shave,  Middleton  ?  "  "  Yes,"  I 
said ;  and  I  lathered  his  smiling  face  with  a  mixture  of  fat 
and  swamp  water  for  twenty  minutes,  to  make  up  for  the 
razor's  bluntness,  and  then  started  on  him.  He  was  a  hand- 
some fellow,  but  as  I  pulled  the  hairs  out  in  batches  his  face 
twisted  and  contorted  till  he  looked  like  a  Ju- Ju,  and  the  tiny 
black  piccaninnies  of  the  native  village  jumped  and  screamed 
with  joy  to  see  the  white  man's  terrible  grimaces.  "Be 
brave,"  I  said,  and  away  came  the  skin  of  his  chin.  Then 
he  performed  on  me ;  but  I  was  younger,  and  only  suffered 
half  as  much  as  he  had  done  as  he  scraped  the  down  from  my 
cheeks. 

A  few  weeks  later  we  bade  each  other  good-bye.  I 
promised  to  write  to  him  but  lost  his  address.  I  never  saw 
him  again,  but  I  have  not  forgotten  him,  as  he  will  see  if 
ever  he  reads  this.  I  have  seldom  had  a  more  cheerful  or 

intellectual  comrade  in  my  travels  than  T was,  and  I 

207 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

am  sure  he  created  fame  by  his  facial  contortions  among  the 
village  children  in  the  African  village  Eko  years  ago. 

You  are  never  really  lonely  in  the  African  bush,  for  as  you 
tramp  along  the  bush  tracks  with  your  swag — a  flask  of 
whisky  and  insect  powder  wrapped  up  in  your  mosquito  net 
— strange  things  follow  you,  singing  and  blowing  tiny  flutes  in 
your  ears  as  they  circle  round  your  head,  a  dancing  ring  of 
tiny  bodies  on  wings.  Some  of  them  hum  at  sunset,  and  if 
you  feel  poetical  you  can  fancy  you  are  out  on  the  lonely 
track,  with  all  the  stars  singing  round  you,  as  like  some 
burdened  creator  you  mumble  to  yourself  and  move  along 
with  your  myriad  satellites  following  you.  At  night  you 
are  not  companionless,  for  the  festering  heat  makes  you 
feverish  and  imaginative.  As  you  lie  down  to  sleep,  after 
closely  fortifying  yourself  from  all  living,  creeping  things, 
the  African  moon  steals  up  the  sky  and  noises  sound  in  your 
ears.  The  hideous  Ju- Ju  faces  that  you  saw  yesterday  in  the 
native  village  emerge,  grinning,  from  the  jungle,  to  peep  and 
dance  all  round  you  ;  some  of  them  bend  over  you,  put  their 
wooden  mouths  to  your  ears  and  whisper  :  "  Englishman, 
Englishman,  go  home  to  your  people  before  you  are  dead." 
The  fat  lizards,  gliding  up  and  down  the  moonlit  mahogany 
tree  trunks,  swell  to  a  monstrous  size  as  you  watch,  and 
jump  right  through  your  head ;  but  pale  shadow  faces  creep 
out  of  the  jungle,  faces  with  blue,  kind  eyes,  and  you  recog- 
nise your  own  memories  as  caressing  fingers,  made  of  home- 
land dreams,  touch  your  brow  and  at  last  you  fall  asleep. 

I  have  often  rested  by  the  track  in  the  lonely  bush  while 
birds  puffed  their  throats  and  sang  to  me  some  sweet  refrain 
that  winged  my  heart  overseas  to  England ;  and  often  at 
sunset  a  bird  would  sing  a  strange  song  that  made  me  feel 
as  though  I  had  been  dead  for  ages,  and  the  sounds  of  the 
native  drums  in  the  distant  village  came  from  ghostly  batta- 
lions of  the  Pharaohs,  calling  me  across  hills  of  sleep.  My 
dreams  have  made  me  one  of  the  wealthiest  travellers  on 
earth.  If  I  can  take  my  best  dreams  to  my  grave  I  shall  be 
happy  enough,  for  I  shall  own  my  own  heaven  and  the 
memory  of  life's  hell  will  pass  away. 

I  remember  once  when  I  was  tramping  the  Australian 

208 


DREAMS 

bush  alone  I  fell  asleep  in  a  hollow,  and  my  dead  brother, 
who  was  lost  overboard  at  sea  whilst  going  out  as  a  sailor  to 
Australia,  crept  out  of  the  gum  clumps  just  by  my  camp  bed 
and  lay  beside  me.  I  was  happy,  and  put  my  arm  round  him 
all  night  long ;  but  I  felt  very  miserable  when  I  awoke  and 
tramped  on  alone  at  daybreak.  I  tell  you  how  I  felt,  because 
men  feel  as  well  as  see  when  they  travel  the  world. 

If  we  could  only  creep  across  the  years,  and  gather  in  a 
harvest  of  our  boyish  dreams,  and  live  them  all  again,  how 
happy  some  of  us  would  be  ;  now  our  days  rush  away  like 
the  waters  of  the  rivers  to  the  sea :  we  still  call  the  rivers 
by  the  old  names,  but  the  singing  waters  of  yesterday  have 
gone  for  ever. 

Our  dreams  are  spiritual  and  beautify  our  brief  existence. 
When  we  cease  to  dream  we  are  truly  dead  ;  the  memory  of 
yesterday's  dream  gilds  the  hollo wness  of  to-day  as  flowers 
sadly  beautify  old  graves.  I  have  often  met  the  dead  walk- 
ing the  streets,  avaricious  skeletons  without  real  eyes,  and 
have  touched  their  cold  hands  and  felt  the  chill  of  death.  I 
have  also  met  the  living  where  I  least  expected  it — in  savage 
huts,  in  wild  lands,  where  the  inhabitants  gave  me  their 
primitive  food,  with  brotherhood  or  sisterhood  breathing 
through  their  kind  eyes,  and  then  cried  and  sang  as  I  played 
my  violin  to  them.  A  bird  singing  at  sunset,  up  in  the 
banyans  or  coco-palms,  would  appeal  to  their  wild  brains ; 
its  tuneful  throat  expressed  the  voice  of  some  infant  god- 
dess of  their  innocent  mythologies :  the  winds  stirring  the 
forests,  the  noise  of  waves,  all  were  voices  calling  to  them 
from  shadow-land.  When  the  forests  of  those  isles  have 
disappeared,  and  the  spires  of  the  cities  rise  everywhere, 
the  thundering  wail  and  crash  of  the  Fijian  cathedral  organ 
will  fail  to  do  that  which  the  small  bird  did  with  its  tiny, 
tuneful  throat. 

I  have  written  of  the  seamy  side  of  native  life,  both  on  the 
Gold  Coast  and  elsewhere,  but  as  in  everything  else  the 
bright  side  of  the  sorrow  is  also  there.  Years  have  changed 
many  things  and  the  advancement  of  time  has  swept  much 
of  the  dross  away.  The  name  of  "  The  White  Man's  Grave  " 
now  sounds  as  primitive  as  "  King  of  the  Cannibal  Isle  "  in 
o  209 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Fiji.  Where  once  the  swamp  mist  lay  yellowish  in  the 
hollows,  sparkling  atmosphere  now  shines ;  drainage  is 
plentiful,  so  the  evils  have  departed.  The  gold  mines  are 
run  on  advanced  scientific  and  medical  lines ;  forty  miles 
from  the  coast  are  the  Abbontiakoon  Mines,  and  the  Abosso, 
Broomassie,  Anglo  Ashanti  Gold  Fields,  and  many  others. 
Right  up  to  Nigeria,  with  its  tin  mines,  all  is  now  healthy 
and  cheerful.  Elevated  bungalows  stud  the  heights  round 
the  mines  ;  they  are  well  drained,  and  as  you  enter  the  tent 
door  of  those  dwellings,  half  hidden  by  jungle  bananas  and 
palm,  you  see  the  white  man  living  in  comfort  and  cleanli- 
ness that  would  often  outrival  the  homes  of  his  native 
country.  The  mine-owners  pay  excellent  wages  to  the 
whites,  and  the  natives  are  ruled  by  fines  and  kindness  ;  to 
whip  a  native,  or  to  strike  one,  is  a  dangerous  offence. 

The  gold  mines  are  a  blessing  to  the  West  Coast  natives. 
The  wages  they  receive  provide  them  with  plenty  for 
their  primitive  requirements ;  but  they  have  to  be  strictly 
watched  as  they  dig,  for  they  hate  work  and  will  try  all 
possible  subterfuges  to  save  digging  to  the  proper  depth. 

Gold  is  found  almost  everywhere,  but  not  in  payable  work- 
ing quantities.  The  country  is  chiefly  owned  by  native 
kings,  who  sell  their  territory  to  the  whites  who  go  that  way 
prospecting.  I  have  met  men  in  London  who  owned  large 
tracts  of  jungle-land  in  West  Africa,  wherein  gold,  four 
ounces  to  the  ton,  lay.  They  showed  me  the  deeds,  signed 
by  the  native  king.  But  the  next  day  I  have  met  another 
man  who  owned  the  very  same  land  and  did  not  know  the 
other  owner  ;  for  those  artful  native  kings  sell  the  same  tract 
of  land  to  every  white  man  who  wants  to  buy  it.  So  it  is 
well  to  be  careful  in  buying  shares  in  Gold  Coast  mines, 
though  the  mines  I  have  mentioned  are  equal  to  any  in 
the  world,  and  are  equipped  with  the  latest  machinery.  The 
managers  from  London  go  out  there  at  frequent  intervals, 
and  the  whole  business  is  worked  by  educated  white  men. 
But  for  the  black-faced  natives  and  the  surrounding  jungle 
and  bungalows  it  might  be  in  London's  highest  commercial 
centre.  Indeed  men  employed  by  them  are  better  off  than 
in  London,  for  they  give  splendid  wages,  palatial  bungalows 

210 


TRIBAL  DANCES 


and  medical  attention,  as  well  as  paying  fares  out  to 
the  coast,  and  home  again  when  their  employee's  time 
is  up. 

The  bungalows  are  all  on  elevated  country  and  are  conse- 
quently healthy,  and  now,  wherever  mines  exist  on  the  Gold 
Coast  and  in  Southern  Nigeria,  you  come  across  smiling 
Englishmen  enjoying  the  wild  jungle  life  and  smoking  by  the 
bungalow  doors,  while  natives  rush  about  waiting  on  the 
Gold  Coast  potentates — for  such  they  are.  Often  they  go 
motoring,  and  the  delighted  natives  go  with  them  in  the 
white  man's  wonderful  train.  When  they  reach  the  out- 
lying villages  the  whole  population  rushes  forth  to  see 
the  car  tear  along  the  jungle  track,  and  if  the  hooter 
sounds  their  black  bodies  fly  off  into  the  jungle  in  all 
directions,  the  piccaninnies  too,  all  frightened  out  of  their 
lives. 

Often  one  hears  the  tom-toms  and  native  orchestra  playing 
in  the  distance.  The  music  drifting  on  the  hot  night  wind 
across  the  jungle  is  impressively  weird  and  carries  one  away 
back,  back  to  the  barbaric  ages. 

The  African  natives  for  centuries  have  had  a  kind  of 
mysterious  wireless  code.  Warnings  of  the  approaching 
enemy  are  drifted  on  the  winds,  from  tribe  to  tribe,  travelling 
through  the  medium  of  drum  sounds,  a  tone  code  of  quick 
taps  and  slow  booms,  for  hundreds  of  miles  down  the  coast 
and  across  country.  If  a  great  chief  dies  mysterious  drums 
beat  and  are  heard  miles  away  in  the  next  village, where  the 
villagers  beat  their  drums  in  turn  and  pass  the  sounds  on ; 
and  so  it  goes  onward,  to  fade  with  the  sunset  into  the  last 
friendly  kraal  of  the  dominion. 


TRIBAL   DANCE. 


Mysterioso. 


211 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 


etc. 


[From  the  Author's  Military  Band  Entr'acte,  Night  in  the  Samoan 
Forests^ 


212 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  Negro  Violinist — Sierra  Leone — Some  Violinists — Wagner — A  Sea 
Chantey — Old  Memories 

WHEN  I  got  back  to  Sierra  Leone  I  was  glad  of  a 
rest  and  stayed  at  the  English  hotel  for  a  couple 
of  weeks.   At  Freetown  I  heard  a  negro  play  the 
violin  really  well.    He  held  the  fiddle  to  his  breast,  instead 
of  to  his  chin,  and  played  Raff's  Cavatina  and  La  Serenata, 
very  expressively.     I  complimented  him  on  his  playing,  and 
discovered  that  a  Hungarian  violin-player  had  given  him  a 
course  of  lessons.    He  played  African  dances  and  melodies 
wonderfully  well.    We  had   a   glorious   time,   that   negro 
violinist  and  I. 

In  an  old  bungalow  by  a  native  village  where  soldiers  and 
white  men  congregated  we  gave  concerts  night  after  night. 
The  men  came  from  far  and  near  and  joined  in  the  sing-songs  ; 
our  small,  extemporised  orchestra  played  homeland  songs  ; 
the  exiles  shouted  themselves  hoarse.  We  made  up  part 
songs  and  put  our  own  words  to  them,  and  the  natives  came 
from  the  village  and  peeped  into  our  bungalow  with  delighted 
eyes  and  ears  as  we  scraped  away.  It  was  there  that  I  wrote 
the  melody  that  is  now  the  trio  of  my  military  march,  Sierra 
Leone.  This  is  how  it  went  in  the  original  setting ;  a  few 
years  later  I  made  a  military  march  trio  of  the  strain  and 
sold  it  to  a  London  publisher.  I  heard  it  performed  by 
Sousa's  Band  at  several  commemoration  festivals  in  New 
York  city. 

SIERRA   LEONE. 
[EXTRACT]  (Military  March.)  A.  S.  M. 


/T     H         r-«        P.     J  p      p 

•IS  —  r— 

-f*  F-B 

—  PR  —  p  —  ta—  F*~~ 

—  I  — 

=P-C=|=     j-   1 

(fy  '  i  1L-  1  '  

\-.  —  L— 

JZ_,  1_ 

—  1  — 

J  I__.J 

We'll       ^all 

go        march  -  ing       back 

.*.        .*.          _*.       _^_ 

5—  2q  »  »  i   m 

to  Sier-ra  Le  - 

_p  p  

gg|  —  »  —  F  —  -  — 

4  —  i  — 

—  «  —  h-  •  r»  —  2~ 
—  1  1  1  ,  

~|— 

|Eg=El 

(  lr      > 

j  —  pfei-j  —  .  —  ,  —  —  .  — 
213 

—  t  ' 

A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 


one,  Sier-ra  Le  -  one, Sier  -  ra  Le  -  one, 

P  -&-          -%-     -•*    -0t-     +*         -•*-     -*-     -t 

-Q—F   P-i — —I r-i — : — I h-rm-F P- 


etc. 


TRIO. 


Sier-ra  Le  -  one        belle,     Sier-ra  Le  -  one       belle, 


un-der  your  palm  •  trees  I  would  dw  -  ell "ff          etc. 


^H^^ 


Reproduced  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  BOOSET  &  Co.,  London,  W. 

I  have  heard  many  violinists,  among  them  Joachim, 
whom  I  heard  when  I  was  a  boy.  While  on  a  ship  in  the  East 
India  Docks  I  obtained  leave  from  the  skipper  for  a  Saturday 
afternoon  off,  and  full  of  excitement  went  to  Sydenham  and 
heard  the  great  violinist  perform  at  the  Crystal  Palace.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I  was  disappointed.  He  played  a  Viotti  con- 
certo, stood  like  a  statue,  and  his  fingers  and  arms  moved 
with  the  ease  of  machinery.  His  bearded  face  was  raised 
toward  the  ceiling  the  whole  time,  as  though  he  saw  some 
beautiful  sight  in  the  sky  above  the  palace  roof.  It 
struck  me  as  a  very  refined  and  intellectual-looking  face. 
His  playing  revealed  perfection  in  the  trained  artistic 
sense,  but  lacked  the  fire  and  emotion  born  of  the  singing 
stars. 

I  heard  Sarasate  play  at  his  villa  near  Biarritz.  His 
nostrils  dilated  and  pinched  in  as  he  played,  and  he  had  all 

214 


THOUGHTS  ON  MUSICIANS 

that  Joachim  lacked  (when  Joachim  played  in  public),  for 
he  was  a  spiritual  player ;  you  could  have  thought  that 
the  angels  were  wailing  and  lingering  his  own  heart-strings. 
M.  Ysaye  played  rather  like  Sarasate,  but  seemed  more 
conscious  of  his  own  ability,  which  destroyed  the  atmosphere 
of  the  public  performance  which  I  happened  to  hear. 

Kubelik  I  have  heard  twice,  at  Bournemouth  and  in  New 
South  Wales.  He  performed  with  Joachim's  machinery- 
like  ease  ;  his  double-stopping  revealed  the  perfection  of  the 
performer's  ear  and  the  dexterity  of  the  fingers  that  seemed 
to  outdo  the  player's  own  heart ;  but  it  struck  me  as  cold 
playing,  as  if  the  player's  command  over  technique  was 
greater  than  his  musical  temperament. 

I  have  often  heard  it  said  that  the  marvellous  technique 
of  Paganini  is  to-day  the  technical  equipment  of  all  violin 
virtuosos.  I  doubt  it.  Certainly  they  are  not  mentally 
equipped  with  his  way  of  playing.  When  you  look  at 
Paganini's  compositions  you  see  something  that  is  the 
outcome  of  one  personality,  the  white  heat  of  genius  who 
first  discovered  the  musical  gold  mines  in  the  depths  of 
the  violin.  What  must  the  man  have  been  whose  genius 
was  so  intense  that  he  invented  that  which  all  others 
imitate  and  call  their  equipment  ?  Paganini  could  not  leave 
his  playing  to  posterity,  but  a  true  critic  can  look  at  those 
individual  compositions  and  dream  of  the  tremendous  passion 
that  inspired  the  maestro  to  leave  us  those  fugitive  echoes 
of  his  playing,  for  that  is  all  they  are.  Paganini  played  like 
an  inspired,  deep-feeling  barbarian  ;  his  style  was  not  artifice 
and  did  not  represent,  by  artistic  bowing  and  phrasing,  the 
niceties  of  polite  emotion  and  the  artistries  of  civilisation. 
We  have  no  compositions  as  he  played  them.  He  stood 
before  his  awestruck  audience  and  extemporised  melodies, 
chords,  sparkling  arpeggios  and  staccato  and  cadenzas,  that 
were  all  half  forgotten  when  the  intense  musical  fury  of  his 
heart  ceased  and  the  magic  fingers  were  silent ;  and  so  we 
have  only  hints  of  his  style.  His  imitators  scrape  out  phono- 
graphic records  of  his  published  compositions  and  say  they 
are  equipped  with  Paganini's  art. 

I  heard  an  English  violinist,  Henley,  in  London.    I  was 

215 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

off  to  Jamaica  next  morning  and  only  heard  him  by  accident. 
A  friend  of  mine  said :  "  Come  in  this  hall."  We  went  in, 
and  I  was  astonished.  I  thought  at  first  that  the  violinist 
whom  I  saw  playing,  with  Joachim's  ease  and  Sarasate's 
passion,  must  be  some  foreigner  ;  but' he  was  an  Englishman. 
His  double-stopping  was  superb,  with  a  passionate  fire  in  it 
alien  to  Kubelik's  temperament,  I  should  think.  Altogether 
he  was  really  the  most  artistic  and  passionate  player  I  ever 
heard,  Sarasate  excepted.  While  he  played  I  realised  that 
note  that  tells  of  genius,  which  makes  you  feel  that  the  per- 
former's violin  and  fingers  are  imperfect  instruments,  are 
not  as  great  as  the  heart  that  is  trying  to  express  its  depth 
of  feeling  upon  strings. 

I  went  abroad  after  that.  I  have  not  heard  since  of 
Henley  the  wonderful  violinist.  He  was  English,  and  I 
suppose  London's  fashionable  musical  world  positively 
refused  to  go  mad  about  an  Englishman  when  so  many 
German  and  Austrian  violinists  were  about. 

I  heard  "  King  Billy,"  the  Australian  Aboriginal  King, 
play  the  violin  by  the  kerb-side  in  Sydney.  He  was  the 
world's  worst  "  great  violinist,"  made  a  squeaking  row  and 
thought  more  of  the  cash  the  Colonials  dropped  in  his  tin 
pot  than  of  the  melody  which  he  performed. 

An  artistic  public  performance  on  the  violin  is  widely 
divided  from  the  poetry  of  violin-playing  in  solitude, 
out  of  sheer  love  to  express  the  performer's  feelings 
and  relieve  the  tension  of  sorrow  and  joy  that  is  oppress- 
ing him.  When  I  was  a  boy,  staying  at  Leichardt,  in 
Sydney,  I  heard  someone  playing  the  violin  and  accom- 
panying his  playing  with  his  own  voice.  The  sound  came 
from  a  little  wooden  house  on  a  flat.  I  stood  still  and 
listened.  It  was  dusk.  On  the  window  was  a  bit  of 
scribbled  paper  :  "  Room  to  let,  cheap."  That  gave  me  a 
good  excuse,  for  I  was  intensely  curious  to  see  the  man  who 
played  and  sang  so  beautifully.  I  knocked  at  the  door  and 
was  asked  in,  and  I  got  in  conversation  with  the  player.  He 
was  a  Norwegian  with  a  handsome  face,  but  unshaved  and 
worried-looking.  His  wife  was  about  thirty  years  older  than 
he  was,  and  as  he  played  to  me  she  sat  near  and  her  old 

316 


MY  GREATEST  VIOLINIST 

wrinkled  face  beamed  with  delight  as  I  praised  his  playing. 
He  played  by  ear  and  was  self-taught.  I  could  easily  see 
that.  But  he  was  a  great  violinist.  He  expressed  his  very 
soul  as  he  played,  in  a  weird,  peculiar  style,  Norwegian 
melodies.  I  felt  greatly  drawn  toward  him  as  he  played 
and  sang  to  me,  looking  past  me  with  steady,  dreaming  eyes 
as  he  extemporised  sweet  strains.  He  had  hard,  rough 
hands,  through  working  on  the  roads.  I  saw  him  night 
after  night.  I  thought  at  first  that  his  wife  was  his  mother, 
and  I  said,  "  Your  son  is  a  real  musician."  When  he  smiled 
at  me  and  said,  "  My  wife,  not  mother,"  I  felt  very  un- 
comfortable. He  took  her  old  wrinkled  hand  and  led  her 
into  the  little  kitchen  and  kissed  her  tenderly.  I  suppose 
Norwegian  women  age  quickly,  or  they  had  fallen  in  love 
with  each  other  when  he  was  quite  a  lad  ;  but  it  was  beautiful 
to  see  their  sincere,  sweetheart-like  affection  for  each  other. 

He  secured  a  job  on  the  Broken  Hill  Silver  Mines,  packed 
up  and  went  off  to  Melbourne.  I  never  saw  him  again.  I 
often  think  of  him  and  his  clever,  handsome  face  as  he  sat 
breathing  heavily  and  playing  and  singing  to  me.  He 
would  have  been  better  than  Joachim  and  Kubelik  if  he  had 
had  their  technical  equipment  and  no  road  stones  to  break 
and  ruin  his  hands.  I  cannot  remember  any  special  feelings 
when  I  heard  the  great  violinists,  Joachim,  Kubelik  and 
Kreisler,  except  curiosity  and  momentary  admiration,  but 
the  memory  of  the  stone-breaking  Norwegian's  playing  is  as 
vivid  to-day  as  then  ;  and  when  I  think  of  it  all  the  poetic 
atmosphere  of  his  playing  still  haunts  me.  So  if  it's  true 
that  Time  is  the  great  critic  of  poetry  and  music,  then 
assuredly,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  my  Norwegian  friend 
was  the  greatest  violinist  I  ever  heard. 

It  is  difficult  to  define  art.  I  suppose  anything  that 
appeals  to  the  best  emotions  in  men  and  women  is  art.  A 
good  deal  of  what  is  known  as  art  to-day  will  soon  be  cast  on 
the  rubbish  heap  of  the  mediaeval  ages  with  the  old  ideals 
and  idols.  People  move  in  the  realms  of  art  as  they  do  in 
frock-coats ;  it  must  be  just  so,  and  must  have  three  buttons 
on  the  front  only  ;  if  it  has  four  buttons  it's  not  art.  Art 
should  be  natural  and  oblivious  of  fashion,  and,  like  true 

217 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

religion,  beautiful  in  rags  and  tatters,  pale-faced,  walking 
the  streets  of  humanity,  singing  with  the  birds  and  stars, 
and  looked  down  upon  by  affluence. 

Do  the  thousands  who  hear  Wagner  understand  the 
depth  and  meaning  of  the  music  as  Wagner  thought  they 
would  understand  ?  Do  they  hear  the  barbarian  note  in 
his  music  that  tells  so  well  of  the  savagery  of  the  German 
people,  the  barbarian  shriek,  the  exultation  over  the  fallen 
and  the  tramp  of  bloodthirsty  warriors  driving  the  helpless 
victims  of  the  fallen  cities  before  them  ?  I  do  not  think  so. 
It's  fashionable,  and  to  have  heard  Wagner  is  to  be  in  the 
fashion,  and  so  off  people  go  and  hear  and  see  "  Wagner." 
Most  of  them  would  more  thoroughly  understand  and  enjoy 
a  phonographic  record  of  a  Solomon  Islander's  cannibalistic 
dance,  accompanied  by  living  pictures  of  the  scantily  clad 
native  men  and  women,  beating  their  drums  and  whirling 
round  the  blushing  bride,  clad  in  half  a  coco-nut  shell  and 
her  hair  only.  Their  funerals  are  conducted  with  the  same 
austere  art  that  makes  them  all  go  and  see  Wagner. 

I  like  Beethoven  and  Mendelssohn's  concertos,  also  Schu- 
bert's music,  indeed  all  the  really  good  classical  compositions, 
but  my  memory  of  the  old  chantey,  Blow  the  Man  Down,  as 
I  heard  it  sung,  and  sang  it  myself,  with  crooked-nosed  old 
sailors  as  we  rounded  Cape  Horn,  with  seas  crashing  over  the 
decks  and  the  flying  scud  racing  the  moon,  the  old  skipper 
on  the  poop  shouting,  muffled  to  the  teeth  in  oilskins,  his 
grey  beard  swinging  sideways  to  the  wind  as  the  full-rigged 
ship  dipped  and  rolled  homeward  bound,  is  something  of 
music,  singing  and  haunting  my  soul,  that  will  only  die  when 
my  memory  dies.  I  can  still  see  the  crew  climbing  aloft 
and  along  the  yards,  their  shadows  falling  softly  through  the 
moonlit  grey  sails  and  yards  on  to  the  decks.  Melodies  from 
the  sails  aloft,  gliding  under  the  stars,  still  sing  beautifully  to 
me  as  I  watch  the  sleeping  sailors,  far  out  at  sea,  in  their 
tossing  bunks.  Then  they  stand  by  the  galley  door,  with 
their  mugs  for  the  hot  coffee,  while  the  chief  mate  tramps 
away  the  night  to  and  fro  on  the  poop,  humming  Soon 
we'll  be  in  London  Town.  Then,  as  I  dream,  the  sails 
crumble  in  the  moonlight,  the  decks  are  awash,  sink  and 

218 


THE  GREATEST  SYMPHONY 

disappear ;  sailors  are  struggling  in  the  moonlit  waters. 
Their  white  hands  are  tossed  up  as  they  sink,  one  by  one ; 
and  now  daybreak  steals  over  the  sky-lines  that  fence  that 
vast  grave  of  wandering  waters. 

Often  memories  play  on  the  strings  of  my  heart  as  I  stand 
listening  to  the  great  orchestra  of  the  winds  fingering  the 
giant  forest  boughs,  or  to  the  noise  of  seas  on  the  moonlit 
shores. 


219 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

My  many  Professions — I  turn  Poet — On  a  Tramp  Steamer — "  Shiver- 
ing Timbers  '-' — Modern  Seamen — Struck  by  Lightning — I  leave 
the  Ship 

I  HAVE  been  almost  everything  in  my  travels.  Stow- 
away, sailor  before  the  mast,  bandmaster  on  a  mail 
steamer,  wet-nurse  to  Samoan  twins,1  bushman, 
boundary  rider,  woodcutter,  sundowner,  post- digger,  snow- 
sweeper  in  North  America,  painter,  deck  hand,  "  shilling-a- 
monther  "  in  a  liner's  stokehold,  messroom  steward,  native 
overseer,  private  grave-digger,  author,  violinist  to  South 
Sea  kings  and  chiefs,  solo  violinist  and  orchestral  violinist 
in  the  large  cities  of  the  world,  music  teacher,  song- 
writer, cornet-player,  composer  of  music  for  military  bands, 
actor  and  singer,  trader,  canvasser  for  crank  patents  and 
medicine,  banana  planter  in  Jamaica,  nut  planter  in  the 
South  Sea  Islands,  gold  miner  in  Australia,  violinist  to 
Geisha  girls  in  Japan,  and  the  leader  of  numerous  splendid 
schemes  that  mostly  failed.  Glorious  schemes  they  were ; 
but  you  can  never  be  sure  of  anything  except  that  you  will 
be  certain  to  attend  your  own  funeral. 

I  have  also  been  a  poet.  I  wrote  a  little  volume  of  Australian 
lyrics  which  are  all  burnt  now.  I  was  so  pleased  with  the 
first  proofs  that  I  put  them  on  my  bedroom  mantelpiece,  so 
that  I  could  see  them  ere  I  slept  and  directly  I  awoke  at 
daybreak.  The  reviews  in  the  newspapers  and  journals  thrilled 
me.  "  Full  of  sincerity,  spirit  and  impulse."  "  Marvellous 

i  Their  mother,  a  native  woman,  was  drowned  by  the  upsetting  of 
a  canoe.  A  Norwegian  sailor  and  I  found  the  infants,  screaming,  in 
a  hut  on  the  coast.  We  secured  a  ripe  coco-nut,  and  opening  the 
eye-hole  in  the  shell,  we  placed  it  in  turns  at  the  mouths.  They  both 
tugged  away  and  pressed  the  shell  with  their  hands  as  though  they 
were  at  the  breast !  and  soon  went  off  fast  asleep.  In  the  morning 
we  gave  them  into  the  charge  of  a  native  girl,  who  took  them  both 
away  to  the  dead  mother's  relations. 


POETIC  ASPIRATIONS 

descriptive  ability."  "  A  real  barbarian  poet  of  the  South 
Seas."  I  thought  my  fortune  was  made,  and  I  could  not 
sleep  through  thinking  of  coming  fame  and  fortune.  I  thought 
surely  such  reviews  in  the  newspapers  will  sell  thousands  of 
copies  of  my  book,  and  I  was  very  happy  over  my  bright 
outlook.  It  was  summer-time.  I  became  restless,  and  with 
the  reviews  in  my  pocket  I  went  off,  walking  very  fast  in  my 
excitement.  I  soon  arrived  in  the  country  at  a  beautiful  spot. 

A  windmill  on  the  hill-top  whirled  its  big  black  hands 
as  though  trying  te  catch  the  winged  music  of  skylarks 
in  the  deep  blue  morning  sky.  By  the  lane-side  stood  a 
cottage  for  sale.  The  very  place  for  me,  I  thought.  I  will 
buy  it  and  write  there.  What  glorious  poems  of  Australia 
and  the  South  Seas  they  will  be !  The  bird  singing  in  a 
clump  of  firs  just  by  my  future  front  door  rippled  out 
notes  as  though  its  little  body  would  burst  with  joy. 
I  took  an  old  envelope  from  my  pocket  and  started  to 
write  a  lyric — how  happy  I  was — even  the  lyric  was  good  ! 

A  month  later  I  wrote  to  the  publisher  and  said  : 

"  DEAR  SIR — Will  you  kindly  send  me  a  cheque  in  settle- 
ment for  copies  of  my  Australian  Lyrics  sold.  I  would  not 
trouble  you  before  the  quarter,  but  unexpected  calls  on  my 
purse  have  arrived  at  an  inopportune  moment." 

Two  weeks  later  I  received  this  reply  : 

"  DEAR  SIR — In  reply  to  yours  of  the  16th,  no  copies  of 
your  book  have  been  sold,  and  we  would  call  your  kind 
attention  to  balance  of  £2,  10s.  overdue  for  binding,  and 
£1,  18s.  for  corrections  in  proof,  etc.,  and  9s.  4d.  for  postage 
in  sending  out  review  copies." 

So  ended  my  volume  of  poetry,  though  I  must  add  that 
the  publisher  turned  out  a  good  sort.  I  would  sooner  deal 
with  publishers,  some  of  them,  than  with  stokehold  bosses 
and  concert  managers.  Music  and  book  publishers  cannot 
publish  authors'  inspirations  that  do  not  sell  and  keep  the 
author  as  well.  I  wish  they  could.  As  for  the  reviewers  of 
my  poetry,  they  made  me  the  happiest  of  aspirants  for  four 
weeks,  and  I  feel  grateful  for  that  four  weeks  of  greatness. 

221 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

I  think  it  was  after  a  voyage  to  the  Cape  that  I  stayed  in 
London  for  a  week,  and  then  secured  a  berth  on  board  the 
s.s.  Port  Adelaide,  a  tramp  steamer.  We  called  at  Las 
Palmas,  and  then  went  slap,  bang  across  the  world  for 
Sydney.  It  was  a  monotonous  voyage.  We  had  a  stow- 
away on  board ;  they  sent  him  down  into  the  stokehold. 
He  had  been  a  London  street  arab  and  street  singer,  was  a 
jolly  youth  and  sang  The  Ivy  and  the  Myrtle  were  in  Bloom. 
Then  he  came  round  with  the  hat  and  got  tobacco  from  the 
amused  crew.  The  sailors  encouraged  him  to  tell  his  experi- 
ences and  were  delighted  to  hear  how  he  carried  parcels  for 
passengers  at  the  railway  stations,  and  often  bolted  with 
the  parcel  if  it  looked  valuable  !  He  would  finish,  and 
then  take  his  tin  whistle  out  and  blow  it,  do  a  jig  and  sing 
some  mournful  street  prayer. 

We  had  very  bad  weather  after  rounding  the  Cape, 
"running  the  Easter  down."  There  were  four  passengers 
on  board,  and  one  died  of  consumption.  He  lay  on  the 
hatchway  for  two  days  and  nights  :  the  weather  was  so  bad 
that  we  couldn't  stop  the  ship  and  decently  bury  "It." 
He  was  canvassed  up  and  weighted  with  lead,  and  seas  came 
over  the  body  all  night  long ;  we  crept  by  it  on  deck  like 
frightened  shadows.  When  it  was  calmer  the  captain  said 
the  burial  service,  and  then  all  the  crew,  standing  round  the 
tied  canvas  length,  said  "  Amen."  Then  gently,  with  the 
chief  mate,  I  pushed  it  forward  into  the  grave  of  wandering 
waters  and  heard  the  awful  plomp  as  it  touched  the  sea.  At 
once  the  bell  in  the  engine-room  rang  full  speed  ahead,  the 
engines  started  banging  and  we  were  off  again. 

About  a  week  after  that  we  sighted  a  full-rigged  sailing- 
ship  bound  for  New  Zealand,  a  Shaw  Saville  boat  painted 
with  white  squares.  She  was  doing  about  twelve  knots  and 
coming  right  across  our  bows.  The  main-mast  was  snapped 
off  by  the  main-yard  and  two  of  the  boats  were  gone  ;  she 
had  been  through  some  terrible  weather.  She  came  dipping 
and  rolling  by,  so  close  that  as  we  looked  over  the  side  we 
saw  the  apprentices  wave  their  hands ;  we  all  waved  back 
as  she  passed  by,  dipping  her  flag  to  us,  and  we  saluted  back 
with  ours.  I  felt  a  choky  feeling  as  I  watched  her  pass,  with 

222 


IN  THE  FORECASTLE 

her  broken  spars  and  torn  sails,  flying  away  towards  the  mist 
of  the  sunset,  the  figure-head  with  hands  stretched  in  prayer 
at  the  bows.  The  white-crested,  curling  waves  lifted  their 
arms  and  plucked  at  her  sides  as  she  went  rolling  and 
pitching  by.  There  was  something  in  the  sight  of  that 
beaten  ship  that  inspired  me  with  more  tenderness  than 
anything  I  have  ever  seen  at  sea. 

I  would  often  sit  in  the  dim,  oil-lit  fo'c'sle  as  we  swayed 
and  dipped  along.  The  tiny  round  port-holes  lifted  to  the 
fall  and  rise  of  the  bows,  revealing  the  tossing  blue  moonlit 
seas  outside.  In  that  roaming  home  of  merchant  sailor- 
men,  at  regular  intervals,  came  the  steady-drawn,  thundering 
music  of  the  steamer's  onward  plunge  as  the  screw  urged 
her  across  the  world.  From  the  middle  of  the  deck  roof 
swung  the  oil  lamp,  its  faint  beams  showing  the  outlines  of 
the  huddled  sea-chests  on  the  deck  floor  and,  all  around, 
the  narrow  coffin-sized  bunks  wherein  lay  the  sleeping  or 
wakeful  crew.  Some  snored,  their  bearded  mouths  wide  open ; 
others  smoked  and  made  ribald  remarks,  as  Jim  English 
the  boatswain,  a  typical  sailor  of  the  old  school,  yarned 
of  long-ago  voyages  on  windjammers.  A  real  old  shellback 
he  was,  and  the  only  sailor  whom  I  ever  heard  use  the 
expressions  "  Shiver  my  timbers  ! "  and  "  Avast  there  !  " 
I  had  voyaged  in  many  sailing-ships  and  tramp  steamers, 
and  mixed  with  many  crews  in  foreign  seaports,  but  never  till 
then  had  I  heard  a  living  mouth  utter  those  ancient  nautical 
phrases  so  familiar  to  me  in  my  old  sea  novels.  "  Stow  yer 
gab,"  "Holy  Moses,"  "Who  the  hell?",  "Gawd  lummy" 
and  "  Gorblimy  "  were  almost  the  only  typical  remarks  in 
which  sailors  of  my  experience  expressed  their  various  moods. 

This  old  shellback,  Jim  English,  was  about  sixty-five  years 
of  age,  and  had  sailed  the  seas  before  most  of  the  crew  were 
born.  Sitting  on  his  huge  brown  sea-chest,  he  would  half 
close  his  eyelids  as  I  played. 

"  Give  us  that  again,  matey  ;  my  old  mother  sang  that  to 
me  when  I  was  a  nipper,"  he  would  say  as  I  scraped  some 
old  melody  out  of  the  carpenter's  cheap  fiddle,  and  his  thin, 
wrinkled  lips  smiled  as  though  he  dreamed  pleasantly  in 
sleep.  I  never  tired  of  listening  to  his  yarns  as  he  sat  and 

223 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

took  bites  from  his  tobacco  plug,  his  kind  grey  eyes  moving 
quickly  as  he  brought  his  fist  down  with  a  crash  to  empha- 
sise the  main  facts  of  his  wonderful  tales.  At  night,  when 
the  wind  was  blowing  and  you  could  only  just  see  the  out- 
lined forms  of  the  watch  tramping  to  and  fro  on  the  bridge, 
he  would  sit  and  tell  us  eerie  things — how  he  had  seen  the 
phantom  ship  off  the  Cape  on  moonlight  nights,  dead  ship- 
mates climbing  aloft  among  the  grey  sails,  singing  chanteys. 

"  Chummy,"  he  would  say,  "  my  wife's  been  dead  these 
'ere  twenty  years,  but  often  at  night  she  sits  on  that  old  sack 
by  my  bunk  there,  looks  at  me  in  the  old  way  and  sez : 
'  Jim,  keep  off  the  booze,  and  don't  make  the  round  trip  a 
dead  'orse.'  And  never  a  drop  have  I  touched  these  ten 
years ;  and  the  old  girl  comes  with  me  and  sits  there  and  looks 
at  me  with  her  laughing  grey  eyes  on  every  trip  now." 

So  earnest  was  he  that  our  heads  instinctively  turned  as 
we  looked  at  the  sack  in  the  dark  corner.  We  half  expected 
to  see  his  dead  wife  sitting  there  staring.  He  believed  im- 
plicitly in  dreams,  for  all  the  dire  disasters  of  his  life  had 
been  foretold  in  them.  He  was  a  kind  of  old  priest  of  the 
sea ;  he  wore  an  oilskin  skull-cap  and  looked  upon  all  of  us  as 
mere  children ;  and  we  felt  like  children  as  we  listened  to  his 
advice  and  experiences.  He  had  cures  for  all  our  ailments, 
and  was  most  superstitious.  Once  while  he  was  yarning 
and  sewing  his  socks  he  put  one  of  them  on  inside  out. 
Suddenly  discovering  it,  he  whipped  it  off,  then  turned  almost 
purple  to  the  centre  of  his  bald  head  and  said  :  "  Now  I've 
done  it,  mates  1  Some  cursed  thing's  sure  to  happen  before 
the  trip's  over.  I've  lost  four  shipmates  overboard  and  all 
through  them  putting  their  socks  on  inside  out !  "  As  he 
said  this  anguish  wrinkled  his  sea-beaten  face,  and  I  too 
almost  cursed  the  unfortunate  mistake.  The  sailors 
shuffling  cards  at  the  fo'c'sle  table  looked  over  their 
shoulders  through  wreaths  of  tobacco  smoke  and  wondered. 
As  for  me,  I  believed  all  he  said.  My  awestruck  eyes 
watched  him  as  he  yarned  on  and  fed  my  imagination  till  I 
was  a  child  again.  His  personality  filled  me  with  admira- 
tion ;  I  almost  worshipped  him.  I  really  think  if  he  had 
mutinied,  and  secured  the  old  tramp  steamer,  I  should  have 

224 


THE  SEA  PRIEST 

followed  him,  as  a  son  his  father,  and  thrown  in  my  lot  with 
him. 

Nor  do  I  exaggerate  in  saying  this,  for  his  weird  personality 
took  me  out  of  myself  and  away  back.  He  refired  the  magic 
blaze,  the  still  smouldering  embers  of  my  boyhood's  romance, 
and  I  was  romantic,  almost  to  madness,  as  a  boy.  Old 
bearded  heroes,  with  unflinching  eyes,  stared  through  my 
memories,  and  fell,  striking  that  last  brave  blow  for  right ! 
Beautiful  women,  running  by  the  magic  moonlit  sea-foams 
of  undiscovered  shores,  stretched  their  arms  seaward  as 
the  wooden  galleons  with  reefed  topsails  stood  inland  for 
the  shore.  Forlorn,  lovelit  eyes  shone  like  stars  through  the 
dead  sunsets  on  the  sky-lines  of  vanished  yesterdays,  till  I 
heard  the  windy  poplar- trees  wailing  in  the  lanes  outside  my 
bedroom  window  and  the  robin  singing  on  the  leafless  apple- 
tree.  Once  more  the  stolen  candle  shone,  and  the  light  never 
seen  on  sea  or  land  blazed  through  my  eyes  as  I  travelled 
across  magic  seas  and  enchanted  distant  lands,  lands 
peopled  with  warriors  and  the  beautiful  creations  of  the 
torn  novel  by  my  bedside. 

That  old  sea  priest  loved  hymns.  He  was  truly  religious, 
and  often  sat  turning  the  leaves  of  his  well-fingered  Bible. 
Abide  with  me,  fast  falls  the  eventide  was  a  favourite  hymn 
of  his.  I  think  I  must  have  played  it  to  him  a  hundred 
times,  so  that  now  the  melody  to  me  suggests  ships  far  out 
at  sea  ;  and  the  old  shellback,  whom  I  loved,  used  to  sit  on 
his  sea-chest  telling  us  boys  of  the  wooden  ships  that  went 
down  the  seas  and  came  back  from  other  lands  laden  with 
scented  cargoes,  and  that  have  faded  away  into  the  romantic 
dreams  of  this  generation. 

The  remainder  of  the  crew  were  a  mixed  lot,  not  very 
different  from  the  usual  run  of  sailors  on  tramp  steamers. 
They  were  quiet  men,  and  had  little  to  do  with  the  firemen 
and  trimmers,  who  inhabited  that  half-fo'c'sle  that  was 
portioned  off  for  them.  I  remember  one  of  them  was  a 
"  shifling-a-monther,"  working  his  passage  to  the  Colonies 
for  his  health.  He  was  a  fine,  broad-chested  fellow,  but  in 
consumption,  and  whenever  he  was  off  duty  he  seemed  to 
be  busy  rubbing  his  chest  with  oils.  He  had  quite  a  dozen 
p  225 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

bottles  at  the  foot  of  his  bunk,  which  he  had  purchased  in 
London  from  quacks  :  each  bottle  held  oil  that  was  a  certain 
cure  for  consumption !  We  were  very  friendly  with  each 
other.  I  often  helped  him  and,  following  his  instructions, 
rubbed  his  back  with  the  oils  till  the  flesh  was  red.  His 
little  hacking  cough  would  disappear  for  several  days  and 
he  would  be  quite  cheerful ;  then  the  cough  would  return  and 
blood-spitting  follow,  and  I  felt  very  sorry  for  him,  especially 
as,  when  he  felt  better,  he  would  hit  his  chest  with  his  fist 
and  show  me  that  he  was  at  last  cured. 

Playing  cards  or  dominoes,  sleeping  and  smoking  were  the 
usual  excitements  of  the  crew.  On  duty,  they  washed  the 
decks  down  with  the  hose,  tramped  their  watches,  rolled 
ropes,  cleaned  brass  work,  and  followed  the  most  mono- 
tonous life  under  the  sun.  After  rounding  the  Cape  to  run 
the  Easter  down  they  became  busy  with  the  sails,  which 
helped  the  engines,  when  the  wind  was  fair,  to  urge  the 
vessel  on  the  lonely  voyage.  A  trip  across  the  world  on  a 
sailing-ship  is  very  different  from  a  voyage  on  a  tramp 
steamer.  She  rides  the  waves  and  seeks  the  winds,  and  like 
a  mammoth  bird  thing,  with  men  singing  chanteys  climbing 
along  the  bones  of  her  spread  wings,  she  races  the  clouds 
that  fly  overhead,  and  seems  to  sway  the  moon,  stars  or 
sun  as  she  rolls  and  pitches  along. 

The  crews  of  sailing-ships  when  I  was  a  boy  were  a  differ- 
ent type  of  men  from  the  crews  of  tramp  boats.  They  were 
real  sailors,  or  young  fellows  who  had  taken  to  sea  life  to 
learn  to  be  sailors.  A  few  of  the  old-time  men  among 
them,  with  their  weather-beaten  faces  and  old  sea  ways, 
gave  that  atmosphere  to  the  foVsle  that  has  now  gone 
for  ever. 

It  must  have  been  the  romantic  dreamer's  paradise  to  go 
down  to  the  sea  in  sailing-ships  before  the  world  was  worldly. 
I  can  imagine  those  old  sailors,  uneducated  and  superstitious, 
on  the  great  ocean  waters,  watching  the  sky-lines  and  the 
dying  sunsets  as  they  dreamed  of  undiscovered  shores,  or 
by  night  on  deck  fancied  they  could  hear  the  breakers  beat- 
ing against  the  starlit  sky-line  where  loomed  the  shores  of 
Eternity.  Time  and  science  have  swept  all  that  away  from 

226 


CHANGES  AT  SEA 

the  sea  for  ever.     To-day  the  seaman  stands  on  the  deck 
and  thinks  of  the  latest  trade  union  grievance. 

The  ways  of  the  ocean  no  longer  suggest  eternity  behind 
the  stars,  or  undiscovered  lands  afar  inhabited  by  strange 
peoples.  To  him  the  ocean  tracks  are  simply  the  main  high- 
ways to  New  York,  London  and  the  Colonial  cities,  and 
to  ports  that  are  like  railway  stations  of  the  high  seas. 
Passengers  get  off  at  Suez,  Colombo,  Sydney  or  Apia  and 
catch  the  next  boat  or  train  as  the  quartermaster  shouts : 
"  All  aboard !  Make  haste,  ladies  and  gentlemen."  Rich 
puffing  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  their  daughters  reship 
with  their  touring  luggage  for  the  next  port,  and  they  drag 
their  deck-chairs  and  pet  poodles  behind  them. 

Old-time  romance  of  thought  has  hardened  and  petrified 
into  our  stone  carved,  grey  terraced  cities;  but  the  blue 
horizons  of  dreams  sparkle  on  for  ever!  Yet  withal, 
I  have  enjoyed  two  blessings  in  life.  One  is  to  have  been 
born  civilised,  for  I  have  never  wanted  to  hurt  a  man  or 
do  anything  really  outrageous.  The  other  is  to  have  been 
born  in  civilised  times  that  have  enabled  me  to  wander 
the  world  unarmed  and  safe ;  to  have  sniffed  the  tropical 
winds,  seas  and  flowers  of  far-off  countries,  and  gazed  across 
primeval  plains  or  on  the  mountain  peaks  of  lonely  isles  ;  to 
have  heard  the  mighty  silence  of  vast  forests  and  peered  into 
the  eyes  of  semi-savage  peoples. 

The  cook  of  that  tramp  steamer  was  a  strange  old  seaman, 
who  drank  gin  and  seldom  spoke.  He  had  a  gnarled,  stolid- 
looking  face  and  expressionless  eyes,  very  deep  set.  The 
green  and  flower  of  his  youth  had  left  him  for  ever ;  not  a 
sentimental  leaf  or  faded  flower  lingered  in  his  memory. 

He  reminded  me  of  the  mummified,  blackened  face  of  an 
old  native  I  saw  once,  who  still  stood  erect,  just  as  he  had 
died,  in  the  hollow  of  a  huge  tree  trunk  in  a  forest  of  New 
Caledonia,  a  tree  wherein  he  had  taken  shelter  just  before 
it  was  struck  by  lightning  !  Heat  had  blistered  the  dead  face 
till  it  resembled  gnarled  bark.  There  was  still  a  glassy 
gleam  deep  in  the  eye-sockets,  for  though  the  eyes  had  gone 
ants  had  eaten  the  back  of  the  head  away,  and  so  light  crept 
through  from  behind,  where  there  was  a  small  decayed  hole 

227 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

in  the  tree  trunk.  It  was  very  faint  though,  and  as  I  stood 
a  little  way  off  that  awful  facial  expression  reminded  me  of 
some  hideous  living  mortal,  whose  soul  slept,  mole-like,  in 
the  cold,  winter  sleep  of  age,  dead,  yet  still  alive  long 
after  the  real  owner  had  committed  suicide  by  strangling 
all  his  passions. 

It  is  strange  how  such  sights  impress  us  and  cling  to  our 
memory,  for  we  meet  dead  men  daily,  whose  faculties  are 
fungus  growths  ;  we  see  their  moving  lips,  shake  their  dead 
hands  and  wonder  on  the  stony  expression  of  their  eyes,  eyes 
that  have  not  even  the  light  of  heaven  behind  them,  as  it  lit 
up  that  Caledonia  mummy's  eye-sockets. 

Our  captain  was  a  Naval  Reserve  man  who  carried  himself 
with  incurable  haughtiness.  He  saw  life's  great  drama  and 
the  light  of  creation  only  by  being  awestruck  at  himself 
and  measuring  all  vastness  from  the  soles  of  his  feet  to  the 
crown  of  his  head.  The  chief  engineer  was  a  jolly  Scotsman, 
who  tipped  the  convivial  chief  steward  and  so  always  had 
a  bottle  of  whisky  under  his  bunk.  When  he  was  "  half- 
seas-over  "  he  sang  Ye  Banks  and  Braes  and  Will  Ye  No ' 
Come  Back  Again  ?  as  the  engines  thumped  and  the  tramp 
steamer  rolled  and  pitched  along  the  highway  of  the  world. 
We  ran  into  terrifically  bad  weather,  and  with  the  sails  set, 
for  the  wind  was  fair,  the  old  engines  crashed  away  as  she 
pitched  and  the  screw  blades  bobbed  up  behind. 

I  have  never  followed  the  sea  directly  as  a  profession,  but 
I  have  lived  and  communed  with  the  hearts  of  sailors,  held 
their  hands  in  warm  comradeship,  as  well  as  shared  their 
hardships  at  sea  and  ashore.  And  so  I  have  read  them  as 
they  cannot  read  the  sea  or  themselves.  To  the  majority  of 
sailors  to  have  been  to  sea,  say  for  twenty  years,  simply 
means  to  them,  "  I've  been  to  sea  for  twenty  years,"  and 
means  nothing  more.  To  have  been  able  to  go  to  sea 
mentally,  as  well  as  physically,  and  to  have  been  thrilled  by 
the  wild  poetry  of  the  wind's  songs  and  the  romance  of  the 
sea,  is  to  be  in  a  strong  sense  a  sailor  of  sailors.  While  the 
average  sailor  can  still  chew  tobacco  and  tell  you  the  names 
of  ropes,  women  and  grog  shanties  in  distant  seaports,  I 
cannot  even  chew  tobacco ;  but  I  can  sit  in  my  little  room 

228 


ADELAIDE 

and  watch  the  thundering  seas  tossing  by  my  bedside, 
ablaze  with  the  true  light  of  sea  romance,  while  sailing-ships, 
with  their  crews  aloft  singing  chanteys  full  of  joy,  pass  and 
repass  through  my  bedroom  door,  outbound  for  the  seaports 
of  the  world. 

About  a  week  later  the  albatross  that  sailed  the  winds 
with  restless  eyes  behind  us  night  and  day  wheeled  round 
and  put  out  for  the  open  sea,  for  we  were  nearing  the  coast 
of  Australia.  I  went  ashore  in  Adelaide  and  got  two 
shillings'  worth  of  tomatoes  for  a  treat.  The  man  on  the 
wharf  helped  my  chum  carry  them.  They  gave  me  half-a- 
hundredweight  for  two  shillings  ! 

Adelaide  is  a  real  old  Colonial  seaboard  town.  I  bought 
a  good  violin  there  and  a  lot  of  strings.  We  left  next  day 
for  Melbourne,  and  I  played  the  violin  the  whole  way.  In 
Melbourne  the  stowaway  bolted,  and  the  donkeyman  swore 
all  the  way  to  Sydney,  for  the  careful  London  arab  started 
life  in  the  new  land  with  his  "  go-ashore  boots  "  and  shirts, 
as  well  as  taking,  in  case  of  emergency,  about  forty  plugs  of 
the  crew's  allowance  tobacco.  We  did  not  feel  sorry  for  the 
stowaway  in  his  venture  in  a  new  life  ;  he  had  the  annexing 
instincts  of  the  old  British  stock,  and  we  all  felt  he  would  do 
well  in  Australia. 

I  very  seldom  made  a  round  trip  and  so,  bidding  the  old 
boatswain  good-bye,  after  taking  him  ashore  to  hear  him 
mutter  for  the  last  time  "  Shiver  my  timbers,"  I  left  the 
ship. 


229 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Yokohama — A  Japanese  Family — Pretty  Sarawana — A  Tea-house 
Festival — A  Geisha  Orchestra — Sun  Worship — Stowaways  in 
the  Stokehold— Reflections— The  Kind  Skipper 

I  STAYED  in  Sydney  for  a  few  weeks  and  finally  got  on 
a  Japanese  ship,  the  Mara,  and  eventually  arrived  at 
Yokohama.  I  had  never  been  to  Japan  before,  and 
after  tea  I  hurried  ashore.  On  the  wharf  stood  rows  of 
Japanese  low-caste  women,  dressed  like  guys.  They  had 
black  teeth,  and  faces  that  looked  as  though  they  were 
carved  out  of  yellow  wood,  and  voices  that  went  "  honk-ki- 
hong-ki-ko  koo  ko,"  as  though  they  had  an  orange  in  their 
throats.  Their  toes  turned  inward  and  their  eyes  outward, 
and  Japanese  flies  built  their  hives  in  their  thick,  matted 
hair.  It  was  hot,  muggy  weather.  I  was  very  disappointed 
at  first,  but  when  I  got  up  into  the  city  and  found  myself 
walking  among  crowds  of  fascinating  Japanese  people,  all 
jabbering  and  shuffling  along  in  clogs,  I  became  interested. 
I  had  some  dim  expectation  of  seeing  bamboo  dwellings 
and  Oriental  fairy-land  trees,  with  Japanese  lanterns  hang- 
ing on  them.  Instead  of  which  I  saw  fine  buildings,  well-lit 
streets  and  beautiful  parks  with  lakes  in  them,  surrounded 
by  maple  and  cherry  trees.  Boats  were  being  paddled  on 
the  lake  by  Japanese  girls  dressed  in  pale  blue  kimonos  and 
with  hibiscus  and  cherry  blossom  in  their  hair.  You  can 
never  forget  that  you  are  in  Japan  because  of  the  strange 
language  that  hums  in  your  ears  as  you  pass  along,  dream- 
ing you  hear  the  sandalled,  shuffling  feet  of  some  old 
ghostly  Assyrian  city  and  the  hubbub  of  the  population 
talking  across  the  silent  ages. 

Next  day  I  went  to  Tokio  ;  it  was  only  a  few  miles  away, 
about  twenty,  I  think.  There  I  saw  real  old  Japan,  and 
went  off  into  the  Oriental  dark  ages.  I  saw  painted,  red- 
lipped  beauties  with  slit-shaped  dark  eyes  and  faces  like 

230 


IN  JAPAN 

dolls,  being  carried  in  sedan-chairs  in  copper-lid-shaped  hats. 
Fanning  themselves,  they  passed  by  and  were  carried  to  the 
palm-house  and  down  corridors  to  their  mats.  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  Japanese  sailor ;  he  was  a  genuine  fellow, 
and  took  a  lot  of  trouble  to  satisfy  my  curiosity.  I  was  in- 
troduced to  his  family ;  they  lived  at  Suraka,  if  I  remember 
the  name  aright.  I  went  into  their  house,  a  wicker  bunga- 
low, and  was  greeted  with,  "  O  Hayo  !  " x  Two  daughters 
in  kimonos,  pink  and  orange-yellow,  waited  on  me,  bowing 
and  curtseying  in  Eastern  style.  The  old  mother  was 
intelligent-looking ;  she  had  a  face  like  a  South  Sea  idol, 
with  kind,  dove-like  eyes.  The  room  was  covered  with  soft 
mats,  and  the  walls,  of  matted  panels,  were  carved  with 
Oriental  designs.  I  felt  exceedingly  happy  as  I  sat  by  the 
Oriental  maidens  and  ate  savoury  rice  and  fowl  and  drank 
saki.  The  daughters  screamed  with  laughter  as  I  used  chop- 
sticks instead  of  the  fork  which  they  gave  me.  I  slept  there 
that  night  and  went  with  the  family  next  day  to  see  the 
sights,  among  them  the  Asakusa  Temple,  where  they 
worshipped  the  goddess  Kwannon.  Beautiful  green  lands 
surrounded  the  Oriental  city.  Sarawana,  my  Japanese 
sailor's  sister,  shuffled  beside  me,  chatting  away  in  Japanese 
as  hard  as  her  tongue  could  go,  and  pointing  to  the  cherry 
and  plum  trees  in  full  bloom  ;  the  quaint  old  mother  and  the 
others  came  on  behind.  They  think  a  great  deal  of  their 
cherry  and  plum  trees,  but  as  I  gazed  at  them  I  thought  of 
dear  old  England.  I  did  not  hear  the  blackbird  singing  in 
those  cherry-trees ;  I  only  saw  large  crimson  butterflies 
flitting  over  the  boughs,  and,  on  the  fair  slopes,  strange 
bamboo-fenced  bungalows,  instead  of  the  country  cottages 
and  smoking  chimneys  of  Kent. 

They  enticed  me  to  a  tea-room  festival,  where  I  had  a 

large  bowl  of  tea,  the  national  beverage.    I  sat  cross-legged 

on  a  little  mat  by  Sarawana,  whose  bright  eyes  sparkled  and 

whose  red  lips  often  parted  in  a  cheery  laugh,  revealing  her 

pearly  teeth.     Geisha  girls  played  samisens  and  biwas,  and 

danced  in  Oriental  curves  round  us.    They  were  mostly 

pretty  maidens,  with  small  white  teeth  and  eyes  that  peeped 

1  Glad  to  see  you. 

231 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

beneath  their  pencilled  brows  like  the  frightened  eyes  of 
squirrels.  They  had  beautiful  hair  too,  with  a  bit  of  the 
national  cherry  blossom  stuck  into  it.  As  they  sang  and 
strummed  on  their  stringed,  lyre-like  instruments  they 
seemed  perfectly  oblivious  of  all  around  them  ;  their  oblique 
eyes  seemed  to  gaze  on  something  miles  away. 

Sarawana  had  been  a  Geisha  girl  and  played  for  her  living 
as  I  had,  and  so  we  became  comrades.  Next  day  I  took  her 
and  her  sister  down  by  the  river.  It  was  a  beautiful  spot ; 
the  banks  were  smothered  with  cherry  and  plum  trees, 
camphor  woods  and  bamboos.  "  Why  are  you  so  sad, 
Sarawana  ?  "  I  said  as  I  sat  by  her  side.  Her  sister  sat 
with  a  Japanese  lad  among  the  bamboos  just  by.  "  Me  litee 
Samaro,  and  he  dead  "  ;  and  then  she  sang  a  little  Japanese 
song,  after  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  big  sleeve  of  her  blue 
kimono.  We  were  quite  alone,  only  the  little  yellow  birds 
twittered  in  the  plum  boughs  overhead.  "  What  does  that 
song  mean,  Sarawana  ?  "  I  said,  and  then  she  told  me,  in 
pidgin-English,  its  meaning. 

ff  Unblown  the  cherry  blossom  blooms 
Are  hid  in  the  cold  of  dead  lips,  weeping  to  blossom, 
And  crescent  moons  of  coming  springs 
Are  pale  for  ever  in  thine  eyes — O  my  love, 
Kwannon  sits  on  her  throne,  Samaro, 
Pale  as  chrysanthemums  waiting  thee 
As  camphor  .trees  sigh  over  thy  grave, 
O  my  Samaro.18 

"  Did  you  love  him  much,  Sarawana  ?  " 

44  Me  litee  him  as  the  birds  the  boughs  ;  the  river  cry  of 
him :  4  O  my  Samaro  ! '  Then  I  tried  to  comfort  her. 
44  Laugh  and  be  happy,  and  come  on  the  river  in  a  pleasure 
junk,"  for  as  I  spoke  a  Japanese  boatman  beckoned  us, 
laid  his  rowing- poles  down  and  started  to  bargain  with  me. 
Then  Sarawana  answered  :  44  Me  litee  you-ee  ;  Geisha  girl 
want  be  ap-pee  little  while." 

44  Of  course,"  I  replied ;  and  then  she  said  :  44  Samaro  dead, 
but  he  know  me  good-ee  and  white  man  know-ee  too  !  " 
Then  she  lifted  her  pale  blue  kimono  and  revealed  her  tiny, 

232 


GEISHA  GIRLS 

clogged  feet  and  ankles  as  she  stepped  into  the  junk ;  and  by 
my  side,  singing  melody  and  words  that  I  could  not  under- 
stand, she  went  down  the  river.  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  my- 
self, sympathised  with  the  sad  little  Geisha  girl,  and  admired 
her  modesty  and  poetic  tenderness  for  the  dead  youth  that 
she  loved. 

I  saw  many  Geisha  girls  and  Japanese  women  of  all  classes, 
but  they  were  not  all  like  Sarawana,  and  so  I  tell  you  of  her. 
Japanese  men  and  women  are  very  much  like  the  white 
races  ;  just  one  difference  marks  their  characters  with  a  ray 
of  spiritual  light :  the  girls,  boys,  women  and  men  of  Japan 
are  poetic,  everything  about  them  is  a  symbol.  A  butter- 
fly sat  on  Sarawana' s  hand  :  it  was  a  kiss  of  her  dead  lover, 
and  when  it  flew  away  it  went  back  to  his  grave  to  kiss  the 
flowers  and  make  him  happy. 

The  birds  in  the  plum-trees  sing  old  love  vows ;  their 
wings  fading  in  the  sunset  are  the  beautiful  thoughts  of  the 
dead  or  the  living  flying  home  to  heaven  again.  Japanese 
eyes  shine  with  tears  of  joy  as  they  think  of  those  things 
at  which  English  girls  and  boys  would  toss  their  heads 
back  and  scream  with  laughter. 

I  did  not  return  to  my  ship,  but  stayed  at  Tokio  till  my 
money  had  all  gone.  For  a  while  I  stopped  with  my  Japanese 
sailor  friend ;  he  was  a  generous  fellow,  and  invited  me  to 
stay  with  him  and  his  people  as  long  as  I  wished.  I  taught 
Sarawana  to  play  some  easy  melodies  on  my  violin,  and  I 
was  surprised  at  the  quick  way  she  picked  up  fiddle-playing. 
She  taught  me  to  play  one  or  two  Japanese  tunes,  and  I  sat 
outside  her  bamboo  bungalow  and  played  as  she  sang,  and 
the  cherry  blossoms  dropped  on  us  from  the  branches  over- 
head. 

I  will  not  tell  you  all  my  experiences  at  Tokio,  but  I  made 
a  bold  bid  to  get  a  living  out  of  my  violin  and  secured  several 
good  pupils.  A  Japanese  lady  of  note  was  one  of  them  ; 
she  was  connected  with  the  Mikado's  Court  and  had  relatives 
in  Tokio.  She  paid  me  well,  and  I  made  good  headway  with 
her,  and  she  was  exceedingly  kind  to  me.  I  also  had  a  few 
Englishwomen  as  pupils,  and  went  to  Yokohama  to  give 
two  of  them  lessons  daily. 

233 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Sarawana  persuaded  me  to  get  up  a  kind  of  Geisha 
orchestra.  She  played  second  fiddle  and  the  cymbals.  I 
ventured  forth  to  a  grand  festival  with  my  Japanese  Geisha 
troupe.  When  it  became  known  that  I  was  friendly  with 
the  Geisha  girls  I  lost  my  best  pupils,  though  there  was 
no  harm  hi  anything  that  I  did.  Sarawana's  mother  was 
pleased  with  our  venture,  and  was  delighted  when  she  saw 
her  daughters  dressed  up  in  brilliant  kimonos  and  decked 
out  in  sashes  of  rich  yellow  and  blue,  with  red  flowers  in 
their  hair  !  I  thought  more  of  the  novelty  of  it  than  I  did  of 
the  money  I  might  make.  How  romantic  it  all  seemed  as  we 
marched  along,  laughing,  under  the  white-blossomed  cherry- 
trees  in  far-off  Japan.  I  did  not  know  that  professors  and 
teachers  of  English  ladies  should  not  go  about  with  Geisha 
girls.  However,  I  enjoyed  myself,  and  my  memory  of  Sara- 
wana and  Tince,  her  sister,  as  I  called  her,  and  her  Geisha 
friends  is  sweeter  to  me  than  the  memory  of  those  pupils 
I  lost. 

My  Geisha  troupe  failed,  and  I  secured  an  engagement 
as  violinist  at  a  missionary  hall.  Sarawana  and  her  family 
attended  the  meetings.  I  worked  there  for  about  three 
weeks  and  received  a  good  salary ;  it  was  easy,  but  un- 
musical, work.  I  had  to  play  the  mission  harmonium  twice 
a  day,  on  Sundays  three  times.  The  hall  was  always  crammed 
with  converts :  old  men,  young  men  and  girls,  some  of  them 
dressed  in  Japanese  costume  and  others  in  European.  Some 
wore  tall  hats  and  white  collars  ;  they  sang  English  hymns, 
though  the  words  were  translated  into  Japanese.  The  old 
men  and  women  sang  very  much  out  of  tune,  but  looked 
very  earnest ;  their  wooden  mouths  opened  and  shut  as  I 
scraped  away.  The  mission  was  conducted  by  English 
women  missionaries,  as  well  as  by  men.  The  Japanese 
women  were  very  decent  people,  and  when  I  left  they  made 
a  collection  for  me  and  handed  me  quite  a  considerable  sum. 
I  composed  a  hymn  and  dedicated  it  to  the  society,  but 
whether  they  ever  published  it  or  not  I  do  not  know  ;  they 
said  they  would.  When  I  bade  my  Japanese  friends  good- 
bye they  seemed  sorry  to  see  me  go,  especially  Sarawana  and 
my  sailor  comrade.  He  had  a  wooden-  looking  face  that  smiled 

234 


THE  AUSTRALIAN'S  SHAME 

eternally,  like  a  carved  idol.  When  he  was  fast  asleep  on 
his  mat  beside  me  he  still  smiled,  and  so  he  was  a  good 
comrade,  for  I  was  subject  to  fits  of  depression,  and 
when  the  little  Japanese  maid  would  play  her  lament  and 
sing  of  her  dead  lover  I  used  to  wish  she  was  not  so 
faithful. 

I  was  then  about  twenty-two  years  of  age  and  had  seen 
much  of  the  world.  Very  often  I  would  lie  awake  for  hours 
thinking  of  things  that  should  have  happened,  considering 
the  great  faith  I  had  in  them. 

I  sometimes  thought  of  going  back  to  England  and  settling 
down  as  a  violinist,  but  then  the  thought  of  my  country's 
terrible  decorum  quashed  my  longing.  I  had  been  a  good 
deal  in  Queensland  and  had  several  good  friends  there ; 
sad  memories,  too,  of  a  bush  girl's  grave  by  the  swamp  oak 
gullies.  Sometimes  I  longed  for  Australian  bush  scenes  as 
a  lad  longs  for  his  own  country.  I  had  been  to  Sydney, 
Melbourne,  Adelaide  and  Brisbane  several  times  since  I  first 
saw  them,  but  things  even  in  one  short  absence  were  rapidly 
changing.  As  the  ships  came  in  crammed  with  emigrants 
from  all  parts  of  the  world  the  surrounding  bush-land  of 
the  seaboard  cities  and  towns  was  cut  down  and  up  went 
thousands  of  wooden  houses.  And  so  old  spots  disappeared 
with  the  bush- land  which  the  Australian  hates.  If  you  say 
to  a  Colonial  "  I  have  been  across  hundreds  of  miles  of 
your  bush-land  with  my  swag,  camping  out,"  he  hangs  his 
head  with  shame,  blushes  and  says :  "I  know,  I  know ;  but 
we  hope  soon  to  cut  it  all  down.  I  suppose  you've  seen  our 
towns  ?  " 

There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  the  majority  of  Australians 
born  are  ashamed  of  the  wild  bush- lands,  and  love  the  streets 
and  spires  and  walls  of  bricks  and  mortar.  Up  country  it's  all 
emigrant  Englishmen,  and  a  few  Australians  who  were  born 
there  and  so  could  not  help  themselves.  As  for  me,  I  loved 
the  bush  and  my  memories  of  the  bush,  and  when  I  went  to 
the  old  spots  and  saw  wooden  homesteads  standing  on  the 
slopes  where  I  camped  by  my  bush  fire  I  felt  sad  about  it, 
even  world-weary  and  old  as  I  looked  across  the  few  years 
and  saw  the  hollows  and  far-off  forest  trees  waving  in  the 

235 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

commandeered  tins  of  stewed  Californian  pears  and  meat, 
and  built  his  strength  up.  He  swallowed  them  down  with 
coal-dust  and  repaid  me  with  grateful  eyes. 

For  out  at  sea  with  sailors  a  fellowship  exists  that  is 
almost  unknown  in  the  cities  of  the  world.  I  suppose  a  ray 
of  the  illimitable  gets  into  their  brains.  The  vastness  of  the 
ocean,  its  endless  sky-lines,  and  the  ships  appearing  through 
them  with  singing  sailors  aloft,  then  passing  away,  just  as 
stars  pass  singing  something  in  the  uncounted  ages  of  God : 
these  things  unconsciously  influence  their  souls  and  they 
become  children  again,  forgetting  the  respectability  of  civilisa- 
tion and  feeling  the  humanity  that  makes  men  die  for  each 
other  in  the  desert  spaces  and  oceans  of  the  world. 

Men  slumbering  in  affluence  and  the  tribal  pride  of  some 
dubious  ancestry  often  appear  soulless .  Suddenly  stricken  with 
some  grief  or  poverty,  they  reveal  something  really  decent 
in  their  natures,  something  that  longed  for  recognition  when 
the  body  waxed  fat  on  food  and  pride — pride  in  the  barbarian 
deeds  of  their  ancestors,  deeds  which  done  now  would  get  the 
doer  ten  years  in  Sing  Sing  or  Wormwood  Scrubbs.  There's 
nothing  like  living  on  "  hard  tack  "  in  a  tramp  steamer's 
foVsle,  or  on  crab-apples  in  the  Australian  bush,  or  in  cities 
by  playing  the  violin,  to  bring  out  the  best  or  worst  in  men. 
Sorrow  writes  the  true  Bible  of  the  universe  and  expresses 
all  the  poetry  of  existence. 

Though  I  have  seen  much  of  the  world  and  had  many 
downfalls,  the  atmosphere  of  my  boyhood  and  its  ideals  re- 
mains. I  still  have  deep  faith  in  God's  merciful  Providence, 
in  the  friendship  of  men,  and  in  the  earnest  love  of  women. 
The  old  heroes  of  my  dreaming  boyhood  still  move  with  me 
as  I  travel  on  ;  the  kindly  eyes  of  earnest  men  and  women 
shine  through  the  mists  of  my  memories  and  sweeten  with 
light  my  dreaming  existence ;  not  till  I  die  will  they  die. 
I  love  to  hear  the  laughter  of  children ;  their  innocent  voices 
and  little  wails  of  grief  express  to  me  cries  from  the  great 
heart  of  music,  till  I  fancy  I  can  see  the  flowers  growing  over 
their  inevitable  graves.  In  that  feeling  I  love  all  men  and 
women ;  and  those  who  have  sinned  have  my  unknown 
sympathy  as  well  as  my  unknown  love. 

238 


BOTANICAL  GARDENS,  BALLARAT,  N.S.W. 


IF! 

Could  I  have  my  own  way  I  would  lead  a  vast  army  to 
demolish  the  mighty  cathedrals  and  churches  of  Europe,  and 
to  rob  the  wealth  of  the  altars,  selling  the  debris  and  giving 
the  proceeds  of  the  glorious  battle  in  the  cause  of  true  religion 
to  the  thousands  of  starving  little  city  children,  providing 
covering  for  their  tiny  emaciated  bodies.  God  would  be  my 
best  friend  in  fighting  for  his  helpless  family  and  providing 
comfort  for  deserted  women  and  fallen  men.  There  is  more 
true  unselfish  religion  in  saving  a  butterfly's  life  than  in 
moaning  for  many  years  in  a  cathedral  pew  about  your 
next  lease  of  life. 

But  to  return  to  my  travels  and  troubles. 

I  well  remember  that  stowaway  trip.  The  boat  was 
bound  for  Sydney.  We  had  beautiful  weather,  and  when  I 
was  a  legitimate  member  of  the  crew  I  did  not  regret  my 
headlong  dip  into  the  stokehold.  My  comrade  and  I  were 
treated  well,  and  my  violin  brought  me  respect  and  applause 
when  I  played  in  the  saloon  concert.  My  fiddle  has  always 
been  a  dear  friend,  and  wailed  passionately  on  my  behalf 
when  I  have  been  in  disgrace.  I  don't  think  I  could  find 
a  more  trustful  and  soulful  companion  if  I  started  off  to 
tramp  the  world  again  to-morrow. 

As  we  were  flying  through  Sydney  Heads  we  received  a 
message  from  the  captain.  He  wanted  to  see  my  comrade 
and  me  on  the  bridge.  He  was  an  elderly,  short-bearded 
man  with  kind  eyes.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  have  to 
hand  you  two  over  to  the  authorities  when  we  get  in. 
Have  you  anything  to  say  for  yourselves  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  I  said ;  "  only  we  are  sorry  for  stowing  away, 
and  wish  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  us  under  such 
circumstances." 

He  said  "  Um,"  and  then  stopped  walking  to  and  fro  to 
say  :  "  Have  you  got  any  money  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said.  "  We'll  go  ashore  and  clear  as  soon 
as  we  get  alongside." 

"  I'll  let  you  off  this  time." 

We  both  thanked  him,  and  half-an-hour  after  the  chief 
mate  came  up  to  us,  and  saying,  "  Here  you  are,"  handed  us 
ten  shillings  each.  They  do  not  always  do  that  when  you 

239 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

stowaway,  but  that  was  my  lucky  experience.  I  can  assure 
you  that  seafaring  men  are  the  bravest  and  kindest  in  the 
world  ;  they  know  it  and  its  ways  by  instinct.  Whenever 
I  hear  of  a  captain  going  down  with  his  ship  a  lump  comes 
up  in  my  throat. 


240 


CHAPTER  XX 

Bombay — My  Brother's  Grave — London  Streets — Outward  Bound — 
I  play  at  Government  House — Ballarat — Mosquitoes — Sight- 
seeing in  New  Zealand — A  Maori  Dance 

MY  next  trip  took  me  to  Bombay,  where  I  stayed  for 
a  few  days  at  the  English  hotel  by  Fort  Hill. 
The  tropical  scenery  struck  me  as  very  similar  to 
that  which  I  had  seen  at  Colombo,  and  the  heat  as  terrific, 
though  feathery  tamarisks  and  palms  shaded  the  tracks. 
The  white  population  were  waited  on  by  the  natives.    My 
father  was  correspondent  for  The  Indian  Times  and  my 
parents  had  lived  in  Bombay  before  I  was  born.     They  knew 
a  great  many  people  there.     In  my  pocket  I  had  a  letter 
from  home.     "  If  you  go  to  Bombay  do  go  and  see  Mr  and 

Mrs  C ,  and  whatever  you  do,  dear,  be  well  dressed." 

I  had  heard  a  lot  about  those  great  people  when  I  was  a 
schoolboy,  so  I  did  as  I  was  bid  and  dressed  up  like  a  prince. 
When  I  arrived  at  the  aristocratic,  verandahed  building 
I  carefully  dusted  my  boots  with  my  handkerchief  and 
knocked.  When  the  door  opened,  and  I  gave  my  name  to 

the  native  servants,  an  old  man,  the  great  C himself, 

came  forward.  He  was  polite  to  me,  and  I  was  the  best- 
dressed  man  in  the  house,  so  I  did  not  begrudge  the  money  I 
had  paid  for  the  loan  of  the  suit  at  the  Bombay  tailor's  ! 

Before  I  left  Bombay  I  went  to  see  my  little  brother's 
grave,  Gerald  Massey  S.  Middleton.  He  was  buried  at 
Colabba  Point,  and  I  discovered  his  grave  at  last.  A  tama- 
risk tree  was  growing  on  it  and  a  few  strange  flowers.  I  felt 
the  kinship  of  that  little  grave  in  a  strange  land  ;  the  earth 
did  not  hide  from  imagination's  eyes  the  little  dust  beneath, 
which  would  have  been  my  big  brother  if  he  had  lived.  I 
remembered  my  mother  and  father  saying  how  they  had  felt 
when  their  ship  went  by  Colabba  Point,  homeward  bound  for 
England,  and  they  stood  on  deck  and  gazed  inland  and 
Q  241 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

thought  of  their  child  being  left  behind.  I  knew  how  they 
must  have  felt  as  I  stood  there  alone  and  gazed  upon  the 
little  stone  set  between  two  large  vaults.  I  felt  intensely 
lonely.  The  Indian  bees  moaned  in  the  flowers  and  palms. 
I  saw  my  mother,  a  girl  in  years  that  day,  standing  weeping 
by  her  lost  child ;  she  still  stood  there  in  the  sunset  and 
shadow  as  I  dreamed.  I  kissed  her,  picked  a  flower  and 
then  walked  away,  the  one  solitary  mourner  that  had  come 
after  many  years,  and  probably  the  last. 

Next  day  I  joined  my  ship  and  arrived  in  London  six 
weeks  later,  only  again  to  get  a  berth  and  go  seaward,  for 
the  grim  respectability  of  the  city  soon  haunted  me  with  its 
stony,  nightmare  eyes.  The  very  atmosphere  seemed  to 
whisper  :  "  Englishman,  Englishman,  are  you  respectable  ? 
Where's  your  Bible,  your  rent -book  and  your  marriage 
certificate  ?  "  I  seemed  to  hear  that  humming  in  my  ears 
as  I  walked  through  London's  streets,  miserably  cold.  I 
shivered,  and  jumped  into  a  cab  at  Waterloo  and  rushed  off 
to  Poplar.  There  was  a  man  who  lived  there,  in  Abbot's 
Road,  who  was  a  crack  hand  at  getting  berths  on  the  ships 
for  us. 

In  a  week  I  was  off  down  Channel,  on  a  Shaw-Saville  boat, 
bound  for  New  Zealand  and  Australia,  as  happy  as  a  swallow 
flying  South.  The  music  of  the  sails,  bellowing  out  and 
flopping  to  rest,  the  rattling  rigging,  the  sailors  talking  and 
singing  on  deck,  made  me  feel  intensely  happy,  and  yet  half 
miserable  as  I  thought  of  the  ship  sailing  across  the  world 
to  a  civilised  port.  I  stood  on  deck  wishing  there  were  un- 
discovered shores  where  waves  sang,  never  seen  by  human 
eyes,  and  dreaming  of  old  pioneers  and  heroes  of  far-off  ages. 
I  seemed  to  realise  at  a  very  early  age  that  the  light  of  the 
Universe,  the  sun  and  stars  were  my  religion,  and  their 
mystery  my  unfathomable  mistress  with  divine  eyes. 

When  the  tramp  steamer,  after  toiling  along  for  weeks  at 
sea,  sighted  land  I  stood  on  her  deck  the  longest,  as  the  far- 
off  shores  shaped  themselves,  and  fancied  I  could  see  the  old 
wooden  pioneer  ships  and  galleons  that  discovered  them 
still  hugging  the  misty  shore  as  sunset  died.  Often  when 
far  out  at  sea  I  would  stand  on  the  poop  by  night  for  hours, 

242 


NEW  ZEALAND 

gazing  astern,  watching  the  star-like  eyes  of  the  albatrosses, 
flitting  on  the  restless  winds,  till  they  seemed  old  heroes,  my 
comrades  out  of  their  graves,  on  beautiful  wings  following 
the  new  ships.  Then  the  mate  would  touch  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  say :  "  Now  then,  young  man,  you  didn't 
come  to  sea  to  dream."  The  crew  holystoned  the  decks, 
the  cook  swore  in  the  galley  as  only  a  sea-cook  can  swear, 
and  the  cabin-boy,  who  had  never  been  to  sea  before,  said, 
"  Is  that  New  Zealand  ? "  and  pointed  shoreward.  As 
we  rolled  along,  with  all  sails  set,  he  stood  on  his  head  as 
soon  as  my  back  was  turned,  for  I  saw  him  in  the  glass  of 
the  saloon  port- holes.  I  knew  how  he  felt. 

I  returned  to  England  on  the  same  ship  and  then  got  a 
berth  on  the  Seneska  and  went  to  America.  A  few  years  later, 
and  I  was  again  in  Australia,  on  the  P.  &  0.  liner  Britannia. 

A  strike  was  on,  and  we  lay  out  in  Sydney  Harbour  for  two 
weeks  and  used  to  go  ashore  in  a  tender  every  evening. 
One  night  I  went  ashore  and  played  at  a  private  concert  out 
at  Pott's  Point,  and  stayed  the  night  as  well.  It  was  a 
wedding  festival,  and  my  host  and  hostess  were  kind, 
Bohemian  folk,  relations  of  Sir  Henry  Parkes.  I  cannot 
remember  their  name.  They  used  their  influence  and 
secured  me  a  position  to  play  at  the  Government  House 
balls  in  Sydney.  I  did  so  well  that  I  got  my  box  off  my 
ship  and  left. 

At  Government  House  I  played  as  a  solo  my  own  com- 
position, The  Monk's  Dream,  which  I  had  arranged  for 
violin  and  pianoforte,  and  A  Soldier's  Dream  Waltz,  with 
variations.  Among  the  audience  was  the  present  Lieutenant 
James  Ord  Hume,  who  was  on  a  tour  through  Australia,  as 
adjudicator  for  the  great  military  and  brass  band  contests 
of  Australia  and  New  Zealand.  Hearing  me  play,  and  find- 
ing that  the  solo  was  my  own  composition,  he  complimented 
me,  and  asked  me  to  go  to  see  him  at  the  Occidental  Hotel. 
I  had  a  very  good  time  there,  for  he  was  most  hospitable. 
He  was  then  about  to  leave  Sydney  for  Ballarat.  "  Would 
you  like  to  come  on  a  trip  with  us  ?  "  he  said.  "  Certainly," 
I  answered,  for  I  had  a  considerable  amount  of  money  just 
then  and  felt  that  a  holiday  would  do  me  good.  Mr  Hume 

243 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

had  not  been  to  Ballarat  before  and  was  delighted  with  the 
scenery  passing  over  the  Blue  Mountains. 

In  Ballarat  we  had  various  experiences,  and  I  worked, 
digging  for  gold,  down  the  chief  gold  mine,  the  War-Hoop 
Mine.  We  went  outside  the  town  and  got  into  the  bush 
too ;  for  though  Ballarat  is  a  beautiful  town,  with  splendid 
buildings,  one  can  walk  in  a  very  short  time  right  into  the 
bush  and  see  scenery  equal  to  the  Queensland  landscape. 
The  Botanical  Gardens  are  also  very  beautiful  and  reveal 
patches  of  primeval  Australia.  We  took  snapshots  of  the 
Wendowee  lakelet,  because  of  the  pretty  little  plump 
Colonial  girls  standing  by  the  banks  ;  they  were  nut-brown 
with  the  sun. 

Mr  Ord  Hume  went  out  to  see  a  friend  who  lived  in  the 
bush,  but  we  only  stayed  two  nights.  There  was  a  stable  and 
swamp  near  our  bedroom  window,  and  when,  after  enjoying 
the  squatter's  hospitality  and  a  musical  evening,  we  went 
to  bed,  though  we  rubbed  ourselves  with  kerosene  oil  and 
smoked,  the  mosquitoes  charged  down  on  our  feet  and  faces 
in  Hunnish  regiments.  At  midnight  we  called  our  host,  and 
he  came  to  our  door  in  his  nightshirt  and  told  us  to  rub  some 
whisky  on  our  faces  and  on  our  feet,  and  gave  us  a  full  bottle 
of  the  best  brand.  Directly  he  had  gone  we  closed  the  door, 
wiped  the  sweat  from  our  perspiring  brows  and  drew  the 
cork  to  rub  our  ravaged  bodies. 

"  Don't  you  think  if  we  took  the  stuff  internally  and  then 
smoked  that  our  breath  full  of  the  fumes  would  keep  the 
cursed  mosquitoes  off  ? "  I  suggested.  Mr  Hume  quite 
agreed  with  my  suggestion,  which  eventually  turned  out  to 
be  a  most  disastrous  one  for  the  mosquitoes,  for  we  drank 
the  whole  bottle  and  then  went  to  sleep,  and  never  felt  one 
mosquito  bite  the  night  through,  nor  did  we  wake  till  long 
after  sunrise. 

I  think  it  was  four  days  before  the  great  band  contest, 
which  Mr  Ord  Hume  was  in  Ballarat  to  adjudicate  on,  came 
off.  The  whole  of  Ballarat  came  to  it.  It  was  at  that 
contest  that  I  first  became  enthusiastic  over  bands.  I  felt 
the  fire  and  go  in  the  Australians'  performances ;  their 
bands  cannot  be  beaten  the  world  over. 

244 


TOURING 

We  saw  a  good  deal  of  life  in  Australia  together  before  I 
left  Lieutenant  J.  Ord  Hume,  a  few  weeks  after  the  Ballarat 
concert,  arranging  to  see  him  later  in  New  Zealand,  where 
he  was  going  to  adjudicate  at  other  band  contests. 

I  went  as  a  passenger  on  a  boat  to  New  Zealand,  and  when 
I  had  been  a  few  days  in  Auckland  I  saw  by  the  newspapers 
that  Mr  Hume  had  arrived  to  judge  the  great  New  Zealand 
band  competitions  at  Masterton  and  elsewhere.  I  managed 
to  be  there.  The  weather  was  glorious,  also  the  applause  of 
the  New  Zealanders  as  the  bands  marched  by. 

I  travelled  with  Mr  Hume  by  train  over  the  Rimnatuka 
Mountain  from  Wellington  to  Masterton.  It  took  three 
engines  to  take  the  train  over  the  rocky  ledges  and  slopes. 
The  grade  is  one  in  fifteen  in  many  places.  The  bush- land 
and  mountain  scenery  is  equal  to  anything  in  Australia,  for 
the  scenery  of  New  Zealand  is  wildly  magnificent. 

After  Mr  Ord  Hume  had  judged  and  conducted  the  massed 
band  performances  at  Auckland  he  kindly  invited  me  to  join 
him,  and  we  went  off  sight-seeing,  visiting  bush- lands,  rivers 
and  hot  springs,  old  tribal  battle  spots  and  Maoris  in  their 
pahs.  Maori  guides  led  us  up  mountains  and  across  volcanic 
chasms,  and  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble  on  our  behalf. 
They  knew  that  Mr  Ord  Hume  had  specially  come  across 
the  world  to  judge  the  bands,  and  so  they  took  us  every- 
where as  their  guests. 

Things  had  altered  a  good  deal  since  my  New  Zealand  visit 
of  a  year  or  so  before.  We  went  across  the  bush,  on  the  way 
to  Wanganuis  river,  and  passed  through  thick,  jungle-like 
forest  and  scenery  that  made  us  forget  the  world  behind.  I 
remember  we  came  across  one  Maori  pah  where  we  got  the 
Maoris  to  stand  and  have  their  photographs  taken.  I  played 
the  violin  again,  as  the  thick-haired  Maori  girls  chanted 
and  danced.  They  have  many  kinds  of  dances,  and  the 
rhythmical  movement  of  their  bodies  is  equal  to  the  weird 
beauty  of  the  South  Sea  Island  Siva  dances. 

Some  of  the  Maori  girls  are  exceedingly  handsome,  but 
they  fade  at  an  early  age.  I  remember  one  girl  who  was 
both  handsome  and  intellectual-looking ;  her  features  were 
delicate  and  soft,  refined  through  not  being  too  perfect. 

245 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

She  had  a  clear  voice,  and  I  extemporised  an  obbligato  on  my 
violin  as  she  sang  in  the  pah.  The  chiefs  and  women  were 
enthusiastic  in  their  applause.  One  ancient  chief  was  thickly 
tattooed  in  engraved,  ornamental  lines  and  looked  exceed- 
ingly majestic.  He  spoke  English  perfectly,  and  I  was  deeply 
interested  in  the  many  things  he  told  us  of  his  younger  days. 
He  was  a  prince  by  blood  and,  like  the  old  chief  whom  I  told 
you  of  in  a  preceding  chapter,  remembered  the  days  when 
the  rival  tribes  met  in  battle,  or  his  tribe  resented  the  white 
man's  encroachment  on  the  tribal  lands. 

I  visited  North  and  South  Island  and  saw  many  of  the 
geysers.  Waimana  Geyser  is  often  in  eruption  and  throws 
up  volcanic  steam  and  matter  nine  hundred  feet,  and  then 
quiets  down.  I  tramped  along  in  tourist  fashion  with  my 
gay  companion ;  helped  take  snapshots,  and  spoilt  a  good 
many  !  We  saw,  too,  the  Waimango  Basin,  the  hot  springs 
and  the  "  Devil's  Frying  Pan,"  where  one  could  stand  up  to 
one's  ankles  in  fire.  We  stopped  with  a  guide  called  War- 
buck  and  had  a  fine  time.  From  there  we  travelled  every- 
where, and  camped  out  for  several  nights,  just  for  the  romance 
and  fun  of  it.  We  cooked  our  potatoes  and  boiled  eggs  in 
the  hot  springs  of  the  Kerern  Geyser,  Rotorua. 

After  that  I  secured  a  position  as  violinist  in  an  orchestra 
at  Auckland  and  bade  Mr  Ord  Hume  good-bye,  for  soon  after 
he  left  New  Zealand. 
•  •••••••• 

I  will  now  return  once  more  to  my  old  Bohemian  days. 
Away  from  respectability  that  whitewashes  men,  back  away 
from  the  mighty  orchestra  of  moving  cogs  and  wheels,  and 
from  the  crowds  of  cold  eyes,  thirsting  for  the  gold  which  is 
necessary  to  keep  them  warm  in  white-collared  respectability, 
back  over  the  seas  to  the  forests  of  Maori  land,  to  the  cry  of 
the  curlew  and  huja  in  the  trees,  by  the  old  pahs  of  Orakan, 
where  Herowera,  the  old-time  warrior,  sat  by  the  rushing 
river  waters.  His  tattooed,  engraved  face  is  alive  with 
memories.  Once  again  he  tells  me  of  the  mighty  Rewi 
Maniapoto  and  the  esprit  de  corps  that  bound  the  tribes 
together  in  their  fierce  battles,  when  Maoris  fought  as  bravely 
for  their  rights  as  the  old  Britons  still  do.  Still  I  fancy  I  hear 

246 


A  HUT  IN  THE  BUSH 

pretty  Rewaro,  the  Maori  maid,  singing  her  chant  as  she  listens 
to  the  old  chief's  reminiscences  of  mighty  deeds  and  battles 
of  yore.  In  the  birch  and  eucalyptus  trees  sigh  old  winds, 
and  from  the  mysterious  glooms  of  moonlit  Arcadia  come 
soft,  weird  sounds  of  Maori  musical  instruments.  I  could 
write  chapters  about  the  Maoris  and  their  habits,  and  their 
wonderful  poetic  legends  of  dead  chiefs  singing  in  the  forest, 
and  maidens  made  of  sea- foam  brightly  dancing  in  the 
glimpsing  moonlight  of  forest  rivers.  I  have  seen  Maoris 
stare  down  the  main  streets  of  Masterton  and  swear  that 
they  could  see  the  rivers  rushing  along  in  the  moonlight, 
and  the  canoes  bearing  the  tribes  over  the  swirling  falls, 
while  Maori  maids,  with  their  beautiful  hair  lifting  in  the 
winds,  danced  on  ghostly,  primeval  waters. 

I  have  felt  as  they  feel  when  they  see  the  city  spires  rising 
over  their  enchanted  lands,  for  I  can  dream  as  they  dream 
and  awake  to  the  same  reality.  Were  I  to  rise,  as  a  man  in  a 
dream,  and  go  back  across  the  years  and  pitch  my  tent  on  the 
old  spot  in  Queensland  where  I  camped,  I  should  be  moved 
on  for  obstructing  the  tramcars,  and  yet  I  am  still  a  young 
man,  so  you  will  see  how  great  is  the  change  in  a  few  years. 
I  remember  my  self-made  hut  home,  fashioned  by  my  own 
hands,  my  comrade  pulling  the  thick  bush  grass  and  boughs 
for  the  walls.  How  happy  we  were  in  that  little  room  as  the 
river  sang,  travelling  onward.  Just  below  we  picked  the 
ripe  yellow  oranges  from  the  deep  grass  under  the  scented 
trees,  where  often  my  parrot  raced  me  across  the  slope  and 
flew  by  me  sideways  with  its  cut  wing  and  won  the  race  as 
I  let  it  pass.  I  remember  how,  before  the  parrot  died,  it 
walked  up  our  cabin  walls  screaming,  with  its  tongue  hanging 
from  its  beak  ;  how  great  was  my  grief  as  its  tiny  jewel  eyes 
opened  and  closed  for  the  last  time.  That  death  was  the 
great  sorrow  of  our  hut  life,  and  we  buried  the  poor  bird,  as 
parents  do  a  beloved  child,  by  the  riverside.  We  went  that 
same  night  over  the  slopes  to  the  camp  of  aborigines,  who 
cheered  us  up  as  they  danced  the  corrobboree,  while  I  played 
the  fiddle  under  the  moonlit  gums.  The  old  women  were  as 
black  as  ebony,  and  they  also  jumped  and  beat  their  hands 
on  their  skinny  thighs,  while  old  and  young  men,  almost 

247 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

naked,  whirled  round  the  smouldering  camp  fire,  with  their 
ribs  painted  white,  looking  like  hideous,  screaming  skeletons. 
We  gave  them  cakes  of  plug  tobacco,  and  in  return  they  would 
dance.  Sometimes  they  would  just  begin  and  then  stop  and 
say :  "  Me  no  dance,  want  more  baccy  first."  I  used  to 
answer :  "  You  no  dance  ?  Then  me  no  play  music." 
Then  their  thick  lips  would  flop  together,  as  they  all  grinned, 
and  off  they  would  start,  whirling  round  in  the  old  brown 
Government  blankets  which  they  wore  over  their  shoulders 
something  after  the  cavalier  fashion  of  romantic  ages.  One 
old  fellow  had  a  tremendous  head  and  was  the  tribal 
musician ;  he  played  a  bone  flute,  the  thigh-bone  of  some 
ancestor.  He  blew  four  notes  on  it  and  played  them  re- 
peatedly ;  and  the  dusky  forms  chanted  and  jumped  round 
him,  beating  their  black  breasts  with  their  hands.  This  is 
how  the  thigh-bone  wailed  to  the  lips  of  its  posterity : 

Aboriginal. 


Those  wild  black  men  had  creeds  and  poetic  legends  of 
their  bush  world,  much  the  same  as  the  wild  white  men. 
For  some  historic  ancestor's  deed  with  the  boomerang  filthy 
old  men  and  women  were  waited  on  by  the  low-caste  tribe, 
who  gazed  upon  their  aboriginal  gentry  with  awestruck  eyes, 
and  pushed  hot,  cooked  white  grubs  and  eel-like  snakes 
into  the  big  black  lips  of  the  aristocrats,  who  sat  by  the  camp 
fire  and  opened  their  huge  mouths  in  a  listless  way,  their 
black,  protruding  bellies  heaving  in  the  bloated  affluence  of 
their  high  lineage. 


248 


CHAPTER  XXI 

At  Sea  in  Dreams — In  London  Town — Off  to  Bordeaux — Our 
Chateau — In  Biarritz — Old  Madrid — I  am  a  Spanish  Trouba- 
dour— Mercedes — My  old  Comrade  ceases  to  sing 

I  am  a  rolling,  rolling  stone  ; 

Stern-fashioned  in  the  mould 
Wherein  God  recasts  sand  and  bone, 

I  glitter  with  pure  gold — 
His  workmanship,  of  course,  not  mine. 

So  still  I  roll  along, 
A  sad  old  stone,  half  gem-divine, 

Gathering  moss  and  song. 

God  made  me  ;  yet  I  am  weak  throughout — 

I  feel  this  as  I  roll, 
By  deep  wild  waters  knocked  about, 

But  like  my  friend  the  mole, 
Hid  ?neath  the  earth  and  flowers,  I  peep 

Up  through  a  crack  and  spy 
Another  world,  from  darkness  deep 

I  see  a  great  blue  sky. 

So  on  I'll  roll  and  roll;  until 

On  some  wild  torrent's  leap 
I  fall  into  the  mighty  mill, 

Sink  in  the  ocean's  deep. 
To  lie  quite  still  as  ages  fly 

*Neath  stars  up  o'er  the  main, 
Till,  brought  up  by  the  Diver,  I 

Go  rolling  on  again  1 

FROM  those  wild  bush- lands  I  passed  away  into  the 
cities  and  on  to  ships,  then  again  back  to  the  cities 
and  seaports  of  the  world. 

I  have  often  thought  of  the  old  crews  that  I  sailed  with  as 
a  boy.  I've  met  them  sometimes  in  grog  saloons  and  sailors' 
homes  in  seaport  towns  of  far-away  countries  ;  only  some  of 
them  though — for  many  went  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  and 
never  returned.  I  have  stood  alone  at  night,  in  the  far-off 
seaport's  little  street,  and  heard  the  drunken  laughter  of 

249 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

sailormen  by  their  ships  at  the  wharves  below  as  I  gazed  into 
the  windows  of  the  second-hand  slop-shop  at  the  relics.  Old 
binoculars,  compasses,  oilskin  caps  and  big  sea-boots  hang- 
ing on  pegs,  in  rows,  for  sale.  As  I  looked  a  mist  crept 
under  the  rotting  rafters  of  the  dingy,  musty,  oil-lit  room, 
the  old  oilskins  swelled,  and  bearded  wraiths  of  dead  sailors 
danced.  The  big  sea-boots  tumbled  about  in  a  jig  by  the 
broken  window  as  I  watched,  and  sounds  of  long- dead 
laughter  echoed  in  my  ears.  Then  up  the  little  seaport 
street,  from  the  bay,  came  a  gust  of  wind  and  blew  me 
into  the  fo'c'sle  of  a  ship  far  away  at  sea.  I  played  the 
fiddle  to  the  dancing  dead  men  and  climbed  aloft  as  their 
hollow  voices  shouted  a  muffled,  windy  chantey.  The  old 
skipper,  with  his  hand  arched  beneath  his  oilskin  sou'wester, 
looked  up  aloft  and  shouted,  and  we  all  echoed  back :  "  Aye, 
aye,  sir,"  and  my  comrade  touched  me  on  the  shoulder  and 
said  :  "  Come  on,  Middleton,  you  don't  want  to  buy  any  of 
those  d d  old  oilskins." 

Once  more  I  found  myself  off,  homeward  bound  round  the 
Horn,  crashing  and  rolling  along,  the  howling  sails  aloft 
singing  to  the  humming  winds  that  we  loved  to  hear,  for  the 
harder  they  blew  the  sooner  we  should  be  in  England. 

When  I  arrived  in  London  the  autumn  rains  were  falling, 
and  the  population  of  the  mighty  city  of  pavements  and 
stone  walls  moved  along  under  a  myriad  umbrellas,  as  old 
St  Paul's  at  flying  intervals  voiced  forth  from  its  mellow, 
iron  throat  the  flight  of  Time. 

Some  musical  friends  in  the  city  had  suggested  to  me  that 
I  should  do  a  wise  thing  if  I  went  to  the  fashionable  winter 
resorts  in  France.  The  idea  struck  me  as  a  very  good  one. 
I  was  told  that  instrumental  players  had  gone  to  France, 
Spain  and  Italy  and  come  back  wealthy.  I  had  seen  a  good 
deal  of  the  world,  at  its  outposts,  and  had  not  succeeded  in 
making  even  a  portion  of  a  fortune,  so  I  resolved  to  get 
out  of  England  without  delay.  Before  I  went  I  felt  that  I 
must  have  a  comrade.  The  thought  of  old  age  with  its  boon 
companion,  decrepitude,  had  always  filled  me  with  a  strange 
horror,  as  something  worse  than  death,  and  so  for  old  age 

250 


BONNIVARD 

I  always  felt  a  commiseration  and  tenderness  which  gave  me 
confidence  in  grey  hairs,  which  often  got  me  into  trouble, 
but  more  often  brought  advice  and  sensible  comradeship. 

When  in  London,  a  year  or  so  before,  I  had  made  friends 
with  a  gentleman  whose  name  was  Bonnivard.  He  had 
been  educated  in  France,  was  a  clever  man  and  could  speak 
French,  Spanish  and  Italian.  It  struck  me  that  if  I  could 
find  out  his  whereabouts  I  might  persuade  him  to  come  with 
me,  for  he  was  a  jovial  man,  and  his  knowledge  of  French 
would  help  me  in  my  travels.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  too,  I 
was  rather  short  of  money  and  thought  perhaps  he  might 
even  lend  me  a  little  towards  the  expenses  of  the  trip.  I 
was  getting  older,  and  experience  had  taught  me  that  too 
much  money  was  not  so  inconvenient  as  too  little.  I  went 
off  to  his  villa  in  the  suburbs  ;  the  old  place  had  "  To  Let  " 
in  the  window.  No  one  in  the  district  knew  of  his  where- 
abouts, but  at  last,  just  as  I  was  almost  disheartened  and 
giving  up  the  thought  of  finding  him,  I  met  a  gentleman  who 
had  known  him.  He  at  once  gave  me  his  address — inmate, 
Homerton  Workhouse,  Hackney  !  I  was  very  much  up- 
set. I  knew  too  well  what  trials,  insults  and  sufferings  my 
friend  must  have  experienced  before  he  sought  a  haven  of 
rest  in  that  terrible  inquisition,  the  English  workhouse. 

I  went  to  Homerton.  The  officials  treated  me  most 
politely  directly  they  discovered  the  reason  of  my  visit. 
When  I  told  my  old  comrade  I  wanted  to  take  him  to  France, 
as  my  guest  and  interpreter,  I  was  considerably  affected  by 
his  delight.  He  had  aged  since  I  had  last  seen  him ;  the 
old  stiff  military  moustachios  had  turned  white  and  had  lost 
their  aristocratic,  upward  twirls.  Next  day  they  were  once 
more  alert  and  alive  with  renewed  majesty,  and  the  hand- 
some old  face,  though  deeply  wrinkled,  was  boyish- looking 
with  delight.  He  was  a  new  being  in  his  frock-coat  and  tall 
hat,  which  I  purchased  remarkably  cheaply  at  a  pawnbroker's 
shop.  The  gloss  of  his  hat  was  perfection,  and  as  he 
smoothed  it  with  his  sleeve,  in  the  old  way,  he  laughed  almost 
hysterically,  with  a  schoolboy's  laughter,  but  my  ear  de- 
tected the  wizened,  high  note  of  age  in  it,  and  it  made  him 
more  pathetic  than  ever. 

251 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

The  next  day,  with  his  dead  wife's  photograph  and  his 
travelling  kit  in  my  box,  as  steerage  passengers  we  went 
down  the  Thames  together,  both  happy,  on  board  the  s.s. 
Albatross,  bound  for  Bordeaux. 

Arriving  at  Bordeaux,  we  found  it  advisable,  owing  to  the 
state  of  our  exchequer,  to  live  outside  in  the  suburbs,  so  we 

rented  a  pretty  little  chateau  in  the  Rue  V ,  Cauderon. 

The  weather  was  bitterly  cold,  and  we  spent  a  good  portion 
of  the  day  in  trying  to  make  our  coke  fire  burn.  Every 
night  we  walked  into  Bordeaux  and  got  a  good  feed  in  a 
restaurant ;  one  franc  fifty  centimes  secured  us  several 
courses,  with  a  bottle  of  wine  each  included.  I  wandered 
about  Bordeaux  a  good  deal,  and  went  down  the  leafy  path- 
ways of  the  Botanical  Gardens,  but  could  not  appreciate 
anything  owing  to  the  cold  winds.  I  had  thought  to  visit 
spots  associated  with  the  old  French  philosopher,  Montaigne, 
who  doubtless  in  his  day  wandered  over  the  historic  streets 
where  I  now  walked  looking  for  violin  engagements.  In  my 
sea-chest  at  our  chateau  I  had  Montaigne's  Essays,  and  I 
satisfied  myself  by  lying  in  my  bed  and  reading  the  deep, 
innocent  wisdom  of  the  great  Frenchman.  Near  where  we 
lived  there  was  a  wine  merchant  and  many  residents  who,  I 
think,  worked  in  the  vineyards.  From  the  merchant  we  got 
credit,  and  things  eventually  became  so  bad  that  we  lived 
for  some  time  on  wine  and  haricot  beans.  At  last  I  secured 
a  course  of  concert  engagements  at  English  and  French  clubs 
and  concerts. 

My  comrade  and  I  invited  the  wine- seller  and  several 
Frenchmen  to  supper  every  night,  and  the  little  chateau 
with  "  Zee  Engleise  gentlemen  "  in  it  rang  with  song  as  a 
French  harp-player  and  I  played.  Long  after  midnight  the 
noise  went  on :  they  all  lifted  their  arms  and  opened  their 
mouths,  while  Mr  Bonnivard  told  those  chivalrous  French- 
men of  his  experiences  in  the  Siege  of  Paris.  They  were 
delighted  with  my  comrade's  yarns,  and  he  went  on  spinning 
them  vigorously.  I  could  not  speak  French,  so  I  could  only 
watch  their  faces  expressing  horror  or  surprise  as  he  fired 
away. 

About  two  weeks  later  the  smash  came.     The  rent  of  the 

252 


DISASTER 

chateau  was  a  hundred  francs  a  month  and  was  due ;  we 
also  owed  the  wine-seller  for  about  a  hundred  bottles  of  red 
and  white  wine.  It  was  cheap  enough,  fourpence  a  litre. 

We  could  not  possibly  pay  the  rent,  but  we  held  a  hurried 
and  private  council  and  resolved  to  give  our  friend  the  wine- 
seller  fifty  francs  and  send  the  remainder  after  we  arrived  at 
Biarritz.  We  dared  not  give  him  more,  otherwise  we  should 
not  have  our  fare.  We  intended  sending  the  rent  to  the 
agent,  who  was  a  little  Frenchman  and  lived  round  the 
corner,  directly  we  had  some  luck,  and  we  did  do  so. 

Before  we  went  away  we  invited  them  all  to  a  grand  supper, 
which  ended  at  midnight  with  the  stirring  Marseillaise. 
We  had  to  be  at  the  Midi  station  by  ten  o'clock  next  morning. 
The  cab  arrived  ;  we  first  went  to  the  agent  to  tell  him  we 
were  obliged  to  leave  for  the  English  season  at  Biarritz  and 
would  send  the  rent  on,  but  he  was  out,  so  off  we  drove.  We 
had  no  sooner  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  than  the  agent 
passed  us  in  a  small  chaise  and  spied  us  and  our  boxes. 
About  five  minutes  after  we  saw  him  chasing  after  us,  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  behind,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
"  Hadn't  we  better  stop  and  explain  ?  "  I  said  to  my  com- 
panion. But  he  would  not  do  so ;  a  whole  regiment  of 
gendarmes  with  drawn  swords  behind  us  would  not  have 
disturbed  him,  but  would  have  simply  supplied  more  excite- 
ment to  the  splendour  of  his  "  La  Belle  France."  He  com- 
pared everything  that  happened  around  him  to  his  life  in 
the  Homerton  Workhouse,  and  so  rubbed  his  hands  with 
delight,  and  shouted  in  French  to  the  driver,  who  at  once 
whipped  up  the  horse,  and  away  we  rumbled  at  full  speed.  I 
painfully  felt  that  we  were  not  in  the  South  Seas,  and  began 
to  feel  uncomfortable  when  I  noticed  that  the  little  agent 
was  gaining  upon  us.  I  had  come  to  France  to  make  my 
fortune,  and  the  prospect  did  not  appear  much  better  than 
it  did  when  I  was  seeking  wealth  in  the  Australian  gold- 
fields  a  few  years  before.  I  stood  up  and  shouted  "  Two 
francs  more  "  in  the  driver's  ear.  He  seemed  to  understand, 
and  gave  the  poor  horse  another  slash,  and  as  we  flew  by  the 
French  people  rushed  from  their  villas  and  shops,  thinking  a 
fire  engine  was  passing  through  the  maze  of  Bordeaux's 

253 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

streets.  We  eventually  lost  sight  of  the  agent,  caught  the 
train  and  arrived  in  due  course  at  Biarritz. 

In  Biarritz  I  did  well:  played  at  the  Casino  and  gave 
private  concerts  at  the  different  clubs  and  hotels  where  the 
wealthy  English  visitors  stayed,  the  Hotel  de  Paris,  H6tel 
d'Angleterre  and  Hotel  du  Prince.  The  British  residents 
consisted  of  titled  folk :  high  chiefs,  princes  and  princesses, 
descendants  of  old  tribes  of  blue-blooded  lineage.  My  com- 
rade was  worth  his  weight  in  gold ;  his  engaging  manner 
enabled  him  to  take  liberties  with  old  colonels  and  the 
austere  English  "  set "  which  would  have  been  strongly 
resented  if  perpetrated  by  anyone  else,  I  saw  aristocratic 
old  gentlemen  flush  and  clutch  their  falling  eyeglass  with 
astonishment  as  he  smacked  them  on  the  back,  but  they 
recovered  and  were  amused  by  his  manner,  for  his  appear- 
ance and  address  revealed  a  personality  and  intellectual 
quality  equal  to  their  own. 

We  also  went  to  Bayonne,  an  old-fashioned  city  surrounded 
by  crumbling  ramparts.  They  had  a  splendid  military  band 
there  and  played  brilliantly.  My  companion  was  so  de- 
lighted with  the  change  in  his  affairs  that  he  sang  my  songs 
and  no  one  else's  as  he  walked  and  hummed  by  my  side. 

Before  we  left  Biarritz  we  stayed  for  a  week  at  the  Hotel 
St  Julien.  Mr  Morrison,  who  ran  it,  gave  a  farewell  concert 
on  our  behalf  and  refused  to  accept  anything  for  our  stay  in 
his  hotel.  My  comrade  loved  singing,  but  had  no  voice  for 
expressing  the  love.  Mrs  Morrison  heroically  presided  at 
the  piano  as  he  sang,  over  and  over  again,  the  one  song 
which  he  sang  other  than  my  compositions.  It  was  The 
Heart  bowed  down  with  Weight  of  Woe.  Mr  Morrison  would 
clench  his  teeth  and  drink  a  stiff  glass  of  cognac,  and  then, 
as  the  old  fellow  bowed  in  a  courtly  way,  encore  him  !  Our 
host  was  a  clever  literary  man,  and  had  all  the  kindness  and 
sincerity  of  a  true  Bohemian  gentleman.  My  old  friend  and 
I  were  sorry  to  bid  him  and  his  kind  wife  good-bye.  They 
made  us  up  a  hamper  of  savoury  food  and  told  us  to  write 
to  them  if  we  ever  got  into  a  tight  corner. 

With  about  five  hundred  francs  in  our  possession  we 
crossed  the  Pyrenees,  and  after  a  month's  travelling,  playing 

254 


SPANISH  BEAUTIES 

at  various  concerts  and  Spanish  festivals,  we  arrived  at 
Madrid.  We  secured  apartments  in  the  old  Moorish  quarter, 
then  sallied  forth  and  mingled  with  the  swarthy  population. 
The  avenues  and  parks  were  alive  with  youths  and  beautiful 
dark  girls  with  Arab  eyes  and  glorious  dark  or  bronze  hair. 
Groups  of  roystering  men  stood  about  smoking  cigarettes. 
They  looked  like  a  mixture  of  Italian,  Moor,  Turk  and  Arab, 
so  reminiscent  were  they  of  those  races.  We  wandered  by 
the  Puera  de  Sol  and  in  the  crowded  streets  near  by,  and 
aristocratic,  sharp-bearded  hidalgos,  with  large-brimmed  som- 
breros on  the  heads  and  cloaks  thrown  over  their  shoulders, 
passed  us  like  cavaliers  of  the  mediaeval  ages.  Till  I  became 
used  to  the  scene  round  me  I  felt  that  we  walked  the  streets 
of  some  old,  lost  city ;  that  the  sailors  of  the  Spanish  Armada 
still  had  lovers  among  the  Spanish  beauties  who  sang  in 
groups  as  they  passed  us,  wearing  short,  ornamental  skirts 
and  coloured  kerchiefs  loosely  swathing  their  heads  of  thick 
dark  hair.  The  Spaniards  gazed  over  their  mantled 
shoulders  with  admiring  eyes,  and  the  laughing,  flattered 
Spanish  maidens  reciprocated  their  gallant  attention  by 
gazing  back  with  amorous  eyes  at  their  handsome  figures, 
with  black  velvet  breeches,  slashed  at  the  sides  to  reveal  pink 
drawers  and  frills.  The  fajas  (sashes)  of  the  men  vied  in 
vividness  of  colour  with  the  gay  swathing  of  the  fair,  bronzed 
maids. 

We  strolled  on  the  banks  of  the  Manzanares  river  by 
moonlight  and  seemed  to  walk  through  fairyland,  though  by 
day  hundreds  of  Spanish  women  used  the  river  as  a  washing- 
tub,  and  forests  of  clothes  props  and  stretched  lines 
blossomed  forth  with  delicate  and  beautiful  undergarments 
of  silk  material.  The  hildagos'  velvet  breeches  and  the 
maids'  fajas  fluttered  cheerfully  side  by  side  in  the 
winds  among  the  chestnut  groves,  and  often  the  cavaliers 
and  dark-eyed  maids  that  owned  them  lay  tucked  in 
bed  till  the  laundress  brought  them  home,  so  poor  were 
they. 

My  comrade  could  speak  Spanish  fairly  well,  and  kept 
excitedly  telling  me  so  many  things  that  I  remembered  none 
of  them.  In  the  cheap  quarter  of  the  town,  where  touring 

255 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

violinists  and  poets  generally  reside,  mysterious  smells  of 
garlic  and  cooking  steams  killed  the  romance  that  hovered 
about  the  beautiful  terraced  architecture  of  Madrid. 

I  looked  in  vain  for  a  position  as  violinist,  but  it  was  not 
to  be  had,  or  the  salary  was  only  sufficient  to  enable  one  to 
live  on  garlic.  So  I  was  forced  to  become  a  Spanish  trouba- 
dour and  go  off  seranading  affluent  hidalgos.  Fortunately 
I  very  soon  replenished  our  dwindling  exchequer.  My  com- 
rade, having  been  educated  in  France,  could  bow  as  royally 
as  the  Spanish  seriores,  and  conducted  all  the  financial  part  of 
the  business.  We  went  into  partnership  with  our  landlady's 
daughters,  who  played  the  guitar  and  mandoline,  and  I  con- 
ducted the  troupe.  When  the  festival  carnivals  began  a 
week  later  we  had  a  glorious  time  and  made  enough  money  to 
enable  us  to  live  comfortably.  I  played  my  Samoan  waltz, 
arranging  it  for  two  violins,  guitar  and  mandolines,  and 
the  wild  barbarian  note  of  the  strain  was  very  popular. 
Maidens,  who  looked  like  Arab  girls  with  shining  eyes, 
whirled  and  swayed  in  the  arms  of  their  Don  Juans,  as  under 
the  Spanish  moon  my  cheerful  troupe  tinkled  away  and  I 
played  the  violin.  Except  for  their  artistic  gowns  and  the 
sashes  flapping  as  they  danced,  I  saw  the  South  Sea  Islanders 
dancing  before  me ;  the  same  abandonment  was  there. 
Their  musical  voices,  as  they  sang  the  refrain,  brought  back 
to  me  wild  tribal  dances  of  the  South  Sea  forest,  where  a  few 
years  before  I  had  conducted  the  banging  war-drums  and 
wedding  music  for  cannibals,  high  chiefs,  dethroned  kings 
and  discarded  queens. 

Pretty  Mercedes  and  Mary,  her  sister,  sang  minor  melodies 
in  duet  style  as  I  extemporised  an  obbligato  on  my  violin. 
They  then  danced  the  Jota  Aragonesa  and  other  dances,  and 
little  children  romped  about  and  imitated  bull-fights,  singing 
wildly  all  the  time. 

After  the  carnival  was  over  my  comrade  and  I  strolled 
about  the  sleeping  city,  and  visited  the  old  quarter  of  alley- 
ways and  gloomy  buildings  and  hidden  dens  where  suspicious 
characters  met  and  loose  lovers  played  guitars  and  mando- 
lines. We  watched  old  priests  shuffling  along  to  visit  the 
sick  senores,  who  had  fed  on  garlic  and  walnuts,  and  lived 

256 


DON  QUIXOTE 

in  Madrid's  East  End,  but  dressed  in  the  blue,  open  days  in 
majestic  splendour  and  vivid  colour. 

We  went  to  the  many  temples  of  Madrid.  They  are 
seldom  silent,  for  up  their  aisles  creep  gentle  Spanish  girls, 
who  come  in,  cross  themselves  and  kneel  in  prayer  to  Jesus 
and  the  Holy  Virgin.  The  earnestness  of  it  all  would  soften 
the  hardest  cynic.  Old  priests  abound,  and  revel  in  the  con- 
fessions of  those  innocent  girls  as  they  bow  their  heads  with 
shame  and  confess  that  they  have  thought  more  during  the 
week  of  Don  Juan's  stalwart,  lithe  figure  than  of  the  Holy 
Virgin.  As  they  pass  one  sees  them  crossing  themselves 
and  murmuring  their  prayers.  At  the  doors  wrinkled  old 
women  pester  one  with  little  boxes  of  wax  matches,  walnuts 
and  photographs  of  Madrid  and  the  Blessed  Virgin.  If  one 
buys  a  cent's  worth  of  anything  from  them  they  follow  on 
for  three  hundred  yards,  calling  down  the  blessing  of  God, 
Jesus  and  the  Virgin  on  one's  head. 

At  night-time,  when  the  moon  is  high  and  the  olive-trees 
and  palms  are  windless  and  still,  down  the  white-terraced 
avenue  goes  Don  Quixote  astride  his  ass,  twirling  his 
moustachios,  till  far  away,  with  Sancho  Panza  by  his  side, 
he  fades  under  the  moonlit  chestnut  groves.  From  the 
forests  of  alleyways  steal  appealing  figures,  with  eyes  that 
beg  for  an  admiring  glance,  and  in  strange,  soft  tones 
wail  of  sorrows  and  no  food  or  place  to  lay  their  weary 
heads.  Give  them  a  coin  and  pass  on,  they  cross 
themselves  and  mention  the  Holy  Virgin's  name,  and  you 
realise  there  is  something  wrong  with  the  world,  for  the  cry 
of  the  Virgin's  name  sounds  sincere.  All  the  cities  have  that 
frail  woman  begging  the  world  to  be  her  husband,  because 
she  never  secured  one  good  man  to  love  her  and  rear  those 
bonny  boys  and  girls  who  wail  to  be  born  in  the  infinite 
shadows  behind  her.  It  is  a  sorrow  that  has  even  spread 
across  the  world  and  reached  the  island  tribes  of  the  South 
Seas. 

Standing  on  the  garden  roof  of  our  house  in  Madrid  we 

could  see  the  country  round,  a  barren  country,  and  looking 

like  the  Australian  Never-Never  Land  in  a  civilised  state.     It 

is  dotted  with  dusty  tracks  and  old  isolated  inns  ;  herds  of 

R  257 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

goats  and  mules  fade  far  across  the  tracks,  looking  like  droves 
of  rats  in  the  desert  distance. 

There  are  beautiful  spots  in  Madrid,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Manzanares,  and  firs,  beeches  and  chestnuts  shade  the 
waters  and  the  slopes  by  the  Royal  Gardens. 

At  night  I  used  to  lie  in  my  attic  room  and  listen  to  the 
nightingales  singing  in  the  chestnut- tree  outside  my  window, 
its  mate  piping  back  approval  from  another  tree  at  regular 
intervals.  My  old  comrade  lay  fast  asleep  on  the  next 
trestle  bed,  for  the  Spanish  hidalgos  gave  him  cognac,  and 
on  the  way  home  from  the  festival  concerts  he  would  clutch 
me  tightly  by  the  arm,  as  little  Mercedes  and  Mary  laughed 
by  my  side.  In  the  morning  he  used  to  say  :  "  Dear  boy, 
whatever  was  it  that  overcame  me  last  night  ?  It's  that 
wretched  garlic." 

Sometimes  when  we  were  short  of  money  we  lay  on  our 
beds  smoking,  and  he  would  tell  me  of  the  Siege  of  Paris, 
his  terrible  experiences  there,  and  how  he  ate  his  share 
of  the  elephant  and  lion  steaks  from  the  Zoo.  Becoming 
philosophical,  he  would  tell  me  of  his  boyish  aspirations,  the 
happiness  he  got  out  of  them  and  the  worry  from  the  events 
that  never  happened.  I  would  say :  "  Supposing  we  run 
right  out  of  money,  what  about  food  and  a  bed  ?  "  Then 
he  would  cheer  me  up  by  saying  :  "  My  dear  boy,  all's  sure 
to  be  well ;  we  are  certain  to  be  somewhere  and  sleep  some- 
where whatever  happens."  Then,  as  was  his  wont,  he  would 
lick  his  thumb  and  push  the  old  cigar  stump  into  his  pipe 
and  hum  my  last  melody — a  melody  that  no  publisher  would 
buy — till  I,  secure  in  his  philosophical  comradeship,  fell 
asleep.  He  never  professed  or  spoke  on  religious  matters, 
but  each  night  he  knelt  by  his  bed  before  he  got  in  and  lit 
his  pipe. 

We  were  very  happy  in  the  house  of  Senora  Dolores ;  she 
treated  us  as  though  we  were  dear  relatives.  In  her  little 
attic  room  I  spent  the  happiest  hours  of  my  Continental 
travels.  I  lay  half  the  night  reading  my  beloved  Montaigne's 
essays.  The  old  French  Shakespeare  was  my  best  dead 
learned  friend.  If  ever  I  was  worried  and  could  not  sleep 
for  thinking  I  went  to  my  sea-chest  and  brought  him  out. 

258 


UNFINISHED  SONGS 

I  read  some  of  his  essays  over  twenty  times,  but  they  were 
always  fresh,  wise  and  sincere,  and  I  still  read  them.  In 
that  little  room  I  also  read  poetry's  legitimate  child,  Keats. 
As  my  dear  comrade  slept  on  I  fell  in  love  with  Madeline 
and  roamed  with  Endymion,  Lamia  and  Hyperion.  The 
nightingale  singing  outside 

"  Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn  " 

as  the  moonlight  glimmered  through  my  little  room.  I  have 
read  somewhere  that  Keats  was  earthly.  I  think  if  he  had 
lived  his  intense  genius  would  have  fought  for  the  sorrows  of 
humanity,  and  his  marvellous  mind  made  literature  and  our 
country  even  better  than  it  is.  It  may  be  centuries  before 
earth,  capable  of  bringing  forth  such  spiritual  flowers  as  his 
earthliness  did,  will  be  born  again. 

Poor  little  Mercedes  !  She  crossed  herself  and  murmured 
the  Holy  Virgin's  name  many  times  as  we  bade  her  and  her 
sister  good-bye,  and  I  thought  of  Madeline,  and  felt  sad  that 
the  days  of  gallant  knights  and  amorous  warriors  were  gone 
for  ever.  I  can  still  see  their  eyes  shining  through  sorrow 
as  we  said  farewell ;  even  the  old  mother's  wrinkled  face 
blushed  as  we  kissed  the  three. 

We  went  from  Madrid  to  Valencia,  where  we  stayed  for 
three  weeks,  and  then  left  by  boat  for  Marseilles,  and  then 
on  to  Nice,  and  finally  to  Genoa.  My  comrade  was  the 
happiest  of  men  as  he  tramped  beside  me  ;  he  loved  to  carry 
my  violin.  We  started  to  write  an  opera  together,  entitled 
The  Siege  of  Paris.  He  was  delighted  as  he  gave  me  thrilling, 
realistic  details  of  all  he  had  witnessed.  I  tried  to  place  them 
in  lyrical  form  and  wrote  suitable  melodies  round  the  tragic 
events.  He  knew  as  much  about  authorship  as  I  did,  but  I 
believe,  with  the  help  of  his  clever  head  and  earnestness,  we 
should  have  amply  made  up  for  our  artistic  deficiencies  and 
lack  of  literary  method. 

The  manuscript  still  remains  unfinished,  as  we  left  it,  for 
not  long  after  he  ceased  singing  my  songs.  The  brief  sun- 
light between  the  workhouse  and  the  grave  faded  and  dis- 
appeared. When  I  turned  away  from  his  last  resting-place 

259 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

I  was  the   only  mourner,  and  as  I  went  away  into  our 
mysterious  world  once  more  I  felt  very  lonely. 

So  end  the  intimate  reminiscences  of  my  wanderings,  most 
of  them  experiences  up  to  my  twenty-second  birthday. 
Whether  I  have  succeeded  in  giving  the  reader  an  insight 
into  the  personality  of  the  writer,  such  a  glimpse  as  an  auto- 
biography is  supposed  to  give,  I  do  not  know.  Personally,  I 
think  it  is  a  hard  thing  to  do  in  a  thorough  sense,  especially 
for  a  vagabond  at  heart.  Each  individual  is  a  multitude 
of  struggling  ancestral  strains,  and  real  active  life  is  mani- 
fested in  the  fight,  the  fierce  hunt  to  find  ourselves  ;  which 
we  can  never  do,  for  we  die  every  moment  that  we  live.  So 
all  we  can  attempt  in  a  book  is  to  tell  truthfully  those  things 
that  impressed  us  deeply  at  different  periods  of  our  life,  so 
deeply  that  they  still  remain  imprinted  on  the  mind.  Also 
to  tell  of  our  experiences  for  better  or  worse  in  this  life  of 
ours,  where  one  footstep  taken  out  of  the  track  that  we  have 
known  and  write  about  would  have  altered  the  whole  book 
of  our  life  to  another  colour. 


260 


CHAPTER  XXII 

I  arrive  at  the  Organization — Bones  and  his  Officials — Mabau,  the 
Maid — Chief  Kaifa — Mabau  in  trouble — I  advise  her — Thakam- 
bau's  Harem — Chief  Kaifa  on  Christianity — Enoch — Escaped 
Convicts — Music — Witchcraft — The  Hermit  Missionary 

.  .  .  While  sweetly  some 
Play  on  soft  flutes  and  lyres,  I,  by  gum  1 
Beat  with  delight  the  big  barbarian  drum 
Before  this  drama  of  the  great  Limelight 
Of  stars — and  dancing  shadows  infinite. 

THE  best  part  of  truth  is  hidden  in  the  heart  of 
humanity.    How  different  is  that  which  we  reveal 
from  that  which  we  think  of  in  silence.   Our  outward 
demeanour  is  civilisation ;  our  hidden  inward  cravings  are 
barbarism.     To  some  extent  these  pages  will  deal  with  the 
savage  instincts  of  the  natives  of  tropical  isles,  and  with  men 
who  have  found  refuge  in  those  lands  far  from  the  cities  of 
the  Western  world. 

To  tell  you  of  the  semi-heathen  is  much  akin  to  telling  you 
of  ourselves,  for  are  not  the  barbarian  instincts  which  we  all 
have  within  us  our  own  tiny,  savage,  dusky  children  ?  We 
chide  them  for  their  waywardness,  but  do  we  not  encourage 
them  in  secret,  as  the  savage  outwardly  does,  expressing  joy- 
ously that  which  we  are  ashamed  of  ?  One  has  the  virtue 
of  truth  and  the  other  of  polished  deceit.  Notwithstanding 
this,  I  think  civilisation  the  best  of  all  possible  things.  Truly, 
however,  civilisation  is  built  on  a  quicksand,  and  now  that 
the  Fijian  forest  battles  and  cannibalistic  feasts  have  become 
fierce  and  gruesome  history  the  great  tribalistic  clash  of 
nations,  in  full  swing  as  I  write,  reveals  more  than  words  the 
relentless  link  that  binds  white  and  brown  men  together. 

Once  when  I  was  wandering  in  the  Marquesan  Group  I 
suddenly  came  across  the  ruins  of  an  old  cannibalistic  amphi- 
theatre standing  lonely  by  the  forest  palms.  The  stone 

261 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

cooling-shelves,  whereon  once  lay  the  dead  men  and  women 
in  hot  weather,  were  still  intact,  but  thickly  overgrown  with 
moss  and  sheltered  by  bamboos ;  the  festival  arena  and 
its  surroundings  of  artistic  savagery  were  all  gone ;  the 
barbarian  log  walls  had  fallen.  Wild  tropical  vines, 
smothered  with  wild  flowers,  thickly  covered  all  that  tomb- 
like  place,  where  savages  once  ate  their  foes  and  whirled  in 
the  cannibalistic  dance,  revealing  the  shapes  of  the  stone 
edifice,  the  pae-pae,1  the  turrets  and  log  walls.  The  savage 
tribes  with  their  sighs  and  laughter  lay  dead,  silent  dust  in 
the  forest  hard  by.  I  looked  up  through  that  amphitheatre- 
shaped  growth.  It  was  night ;  I  saw  the  stars  glimmering 
through  the  dark  palms  as  the  trade  wind  stirred  them. 
Now  I  think  those  vanished  walls  were  as  civilisation,  and 
the  green  clinging  boughs  remaining  and  revealing  the 
amphitheatre's  shape  sad  humanity  clinging  to  the  best  it 
has  left. 

The  simile  may  not  be  perfect,  but  neither  is  anything  that 
is  human.  But  I  must  ramble  on  my  way,  for  I  am  now  well 
on  the  road  to  my  reminiscences  of  Fiji. 

Years  ago,  just  off  the  Rewa  river,  which  is  navigable 
fifty  or  sixty  miles  inland,  there  was  a  wooden  shanty.  It 
had  two  compartments  ;  the  walls  were  made  of  coco-palm 
stems  tied  strongly  together  with  wild  hemp.  Situated  at 
a  lonely  spot,  surrounded  by  primeval  vegetation,  coco- 
palms,  backa-trees  and  wild,  tropical,  twining  vines,  it  was 
eminently  suitable  for  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  used,  for 
in  its  snug  rooms  lived  the  men  who  were  members  of  the 
Charity  Organization  of  the  South  Seas !  The  officials  did 
not  run  the  place  on  Western  lines,  for  it  was  a  true  home 
for  the  fallen  :  no  questions  were  asked  when  suddenly  the 
hunted,  haggard,  unshaved  face  appeared  ;  to  be  hunted 
was  a  sufficient  reference  to  enable  the  applicant  to  be  at 
once  enrolled  as  a  member.  Twelve  fierce-eyed,  rough- 
looking  men,  attired  in  big-brimmed  hats  and  belted 
trousers,  would  greet  the  new  arrival,  and  with  the  instinct 
of  bloodhounds  stare,  and  reckon  up  the  new  visitor's  pedi- 
gree. If  he  looked  sufficiently  villainous  and  haggard,  and 

1  Altar. 
262 


THE  GREAT  MISSING 

pathetically  told  the  woe  of  some  criminal  ambition  that  had 
been  frustrated  by  the  vigilant  eye  of  civilisation,  he  was 
immediately  given  the  first  grade  diploma,  a  tin  mug  of  the 
best  Fijian  rum  !  If  he  still  possessed  any  part  of  the  spoil 
he  could  have  an  extra  mugful,  for  the  Organization  was  not 
a  rich  one.  A  little  off-side  room  was  artistically  arranged ; 
a  small  looking-glass,  brush  and  comb,  and  all  those  things 
that  tell  of  gentleness  and  frailness  completed  its  furniture. 
There  it  was,  silent,  clean,  tenantless  and  ready,  for  often 
from  other  lands,  with  the  spoil,  the  missing  man  would 
arrive  with  the  cause  of  his  downfall  weeping  beside  him, 
a  ad  in  there  she  slept ! 

No  one  could  tell  the  individual  histories  of  these  men. 
It  will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  they  were  there. 

Ere  I  proceed  I  must  tell  you  that  when  I  speak  of  the 
Organization's  whereabouts  I  mislead  you  in  the  name  only ; 
the  true  vicinity  characteristically  resembles  my  description. 
It  is  obvious  that  to  be  faithful  to  those  who  befriended  me 
I  must  be  secretive  in  some  of  the  details  which  tell  of  this 
isle  of  the  South  Seas,  where  men  sought,  and  probably  still 
seek,  a  harbour  of  refuge  safe  from  the  stern  law  of  civilised 
cities.  To-day  this  institution  exists  and  still  carries  on  its 
varied  work  of  extreme  humanity.  The  low-roofed  den,  the 
old  bench  surrounded  by  the  swarthy,  unshaved  faces  of 
the  secretive  crew,  like  bending  shadows  in  tobacco  smoke, 
breathing  oaths  as  the  cards  are  shuffled,  has  disappeared ; 
but  still  the  game  is  carried  on,  though  in  more  magnificent 
style,  for  as  the  cities  rise  the  aristocracy  of  crime  fortifies 
itself,  becoming  more  guarded  and  respectable  in  outward 
appearance.  Be  assured  that  I  dip  my  pen  in  stern 
experience  for  that  which  I  tell  you. 

When  you  see  these  headlines  in  your  daily  paper,  "  Bank 
Manager  Disappears.  Officials  in  the  Dock",  "Mayor 
and  Vicar  Missing,"  be  sure  that  the  head  of  the  Charity 
Organization  of  the  South  Seas  has  read  the  Colonial  cable 
in  The  Marquesa  News  or  Apia  Times,  and  has  rubbed  his 
hands  with  delighted  expectation,  and  that  his  agents  are 
watching  at  the  warden  gates  of  the  high  sea  ports  of  the 
tropic  world.  Forest  lands,  caves  and  mountain  fastnesses 

263 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

and  unknown  isles  of  security  are  fast  disappearing  from  the 
world  as  it  becomes  polite. 

Where  the  bokai  feast  roared  and  revelled,  and  the  Fijian 
war  dancers  in  the  moonlight  of  other  years  whirled,  in 
bloodthirsty  revelry,  by  the  Rewa  river,  now  rise  the  church 
spires  !  Where  the  ambushed  tribe  once  watched  from  the 
jungle  with  gleaming  eyes  pass  austere  university  men  clad 
in  gowns,  with  Bibles  in  their  hands,  to  lecture  on  Christianity 
to  open-mouthed  natives.  So  things  have  changed,  and  the 
heathenish  creeds  of  the  old  days  faded,  and  it  is  my  wish  to 
give  you  one  glimpse  of  that  which  has  been. 

It  was  my  lot  to  stay  in  the  Organization  I  speak  of.  A 
mile  off  was  a  small  native  village,  where  Mabau,  a  Fijian 
maid  who  helped  Bones,  the  Organization  overseer,  to  keep 
the  rooms  clean  and  tidy,  lived.  Bones  was  the  descendant 
of  one  of  those  old  Botany  Bay  convicts  who,  escaping  in  a 
boat,  put  to  sea,  and  eventually  drifting  ashore  in  Fiji,  made 
their  homes  there,  and  inculcated  in  the  islanders'  minds  the 
first  contempt  for  the  white  race :  contempt  which,  by  an 
age  of  vigorous  striving,  missionaries  have  at  last  removed. 
Bones  told  me  much  of  his  convict  ancestor,  who  had  been 
transported  from  England  for  stealing  a  hammer,  and  so 
Bones  was  born  in  the  South  Seas.  He  had  a  firm,  open 
face,  grey,  English  eyes  and  a  Fijian  mouth.  He  was  a 
fairly  well-educated  man,  and  though  he  looked  rough,  at 
heart  was  kind ;  he  kissed  Mabau's  pretty  face  as  though 
she  were  his  own  child.  In  fact  Bones  in  every  way  struck 
me  as  being  most  suitable  for  his  job  of  running  a  South  Sea 
Charity  Organization,  which  was  run  upon  exactly  opposite 
lines  to  the  charity  organizations  of  the  Western  seas,  where 
the  officials  have  stony  eyes  and  steel-trap  mouths.  As  I 
have  told  you,  Bones  had  neither ;  and  as  I  sat  by  him  and  a 
strange  bird  in  the  coco-tree  sang  to  the  sunset,  I  felt  drawn 
to  him,  and  told  him  more  than  I  would  tell  most  men.  It 
was  a  beautiful  night ;  most  of  Bones's  friends  were  away, 
some  at  work  and  some  at  sea  on  trading  schooners.  Bones 
played  the  banjo  and  I  the  fiddle,  and  after  indulging  in 
some  European  and  native  folk-songs  he  lit  his  pipe  and  I 
strolled  off  under  the  palms. 

264 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  FOREST 

It  was  on  this  night  that  I  met  Mabau  again.  Now 
Mabau  was  a  Fijian  maid  of  rare  beauty.  She  had  shining 
dark  eyes  and  a  thick  mop  of  hair  ;  the  graceful  curves  of 
her  bare  brown  body  as  she  glided  'neath  the  sunlit  palms 
made  many  Fijian  youths  gaze  enviously  upon  her.  The 
Chief  Kaifa,  her  father,  sat  by  his  hut  door ;  he  had  been 
one  of  the  high  chiefs  of  Thakambau,  the  last  of  the  Fijian 
kings.  Kaifa  was  a  majestic-looking  man  ;  in  spite  of  his 
thick  lips  he  had  fine  features,  with  earnest  eyes,  and  was 
straight-figured  as  a  coco-palm.  As  he  sat  there,  dressed  in 
his  native  sulu,  he  smiled  as  I  spoke  to  his  daughter  Mabau. 
I  knew  more  of  her  doings  than  he  thought.  She  was  a  true 
daughter  of  Eve,  for  her  glance  gave  no  hint  whatever  that 
we  had  met  before. 

For  in  my  forest  wanderings,  about  two  days  before  the 
evening  I  have  mentioned,  I  had  met  Mabau.  She  did  not 
know  at  first  that  I  had  perceived  her  in  a  lonely  spot.  She 
knelt  on  her  knees  before  a  rotting,  cast-off  wooden  idol. 
Sunset  had  fired  with  red  and  gold  the  tops  of  the  coco-palms 
and  forest  trees  ;  overhead  a  few  birds  were  still  whistling. 
As  I  approached,  and  the  dead  scrub  cracked  beneath  my 
feet,  the  heathen-hearted  little  maid  looked  hastily  over  her 
bare  shoulder  and,  seeing  me,  arose  swiftly,  as  though  for 
flight.  My  voice  must  have  had  a  note  in  it  that  appealed 
to  and  reassured  the  guilty  forest  child,  for  I  called  softly, 
and  then  smiled  to  let  her  know  that  from  me  no  harm 
should  befall  her.  "  Why  do  you  pray  to  that  wooden 
thing  ?  "  I  said,  and  then  I  gave  the  monstrous  effigy  a  kick. 
With  a  frightened  sigh  she  looked  up  at  me  and  said  :  "  O 
Papalangi,  I  love  Vituo  the  half-caste."  Then  with  a  blush 
she  told  me  all,  and  it  seemed  that  the  soul  of  innocence 
peered  through  her  eyes  and  asked  for  mercy  as  she  looked 
down  at  herself  and  then  up  to  me  again,  one  hand  resting 
on  her  brown  breast.  I  gazed  silently  and  knew  all.  The 
perfidious  Vituo  had  stolen  her  heart. 

"  Me  killee  Vituo ;  your  white  God  no  help  me,  will  he  ?  " 
she  said.  I  gazed  awhile  and  said  :  "  Yes,  He  will,  Mabau." 
I  would  not  have  told  this  thundering  lie  but  for  the  fact 
that  her  appealing  eyes  awoke  the  best  that  was  in  me,  and 

265 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

it  was  my  earnest  wish  to  attempt  to  stay  her  from  inflicting 
any  vengeance  on  her  sinful  lover  which  might  bring  sorrow 
to  her  afterwards. 

Encouraged  by  my  kindness,  and  misunderstanding  my 
gestures  as  I  endeavoured  to  explain  that  she  should  pray 
to  the  Christian  God  instead  of  to  the  gods  of  her  fathers, 
she  suddenly  lifted  her  arms  and  started  to  chant  into  the 
wooden  ears  of  the  old  idol  again.  On  her  knees  she 
went,  swaying  her  body  and  arms  gently  all  the  while  in  the 
mystic,  Mebete  charms.  She  sang  on  earnestly,  and  I  gazed, 
astonished  to  see  the  heathen  age  before  my  eyes  and  to  feel 
my  ear-drums  vibrating  to  the  primeval  lore  of  the  South  Seas. 
Through  the  forest  boughs  just  overhead  crept  the  lingering 
rays  of  the  dying  sunset,  and  two  golden  streaks  fell  slant- 
wise over  the  praying  maid's  brown  body,  glimmering  in  her 
thick  dark  hair  as  her  head  moved  to  and  fro  while  she 
chanted  her  despair. 

"  Mabau,"  I  said,  "  where  does  Vituo  live  ?  Why  not  go 
and  find  him,  tell  him  of  your  love  and  offer  your  forgive- 
ness ;  he  will  doubtless  take  you  to  his  arms."  In  truth  I 
felt  this  might  be,  for  she  was  a  comely  and  pretty  maid. 
At  my  saying  this  she  answered  in  this  wise  :  "  O  white 
mans,  I  long  die  and  go  to  Nedengi,  or  Mburanto  the  great 
goddess,  who  love  deceived  maids  and  make  gods  of 
children."  Then,  with  a  fierce  look  on  her  dark  face,  and 
with  heaving  bosom,  she  continued  :  "  Mburanto  will  blow 
the  breath  of  the  big  wind  that  will  kill  him,  the  wicked 
Vituo,  and  then  him  once  dead  will  love  me  again,  for  good 
is  his  soul,  though  his  body  is  whitish  and  wicked."  I  saw 
the  depth  of  her  love  flame  in  her  eyes,  and  I  answered : 
"  Mabau,  go  home,  and  I  will  pray  to  the  white  God  for  you, 
and  will  see  what  can  be  done  to  bring  this  treacherous 
Vituo  back  to  you  again."  At  this,  with  delight,  she  rose 
to  her  feet,  her  eyes  and  face  shining  and  expressing  pleasure 
at  my  promise ;  her  sulu-cloth  of  woven  coco-nut  fibre 
revealed  her  trembling  thighs  as,  with  the  impulsiveness  of 
the  Fijian  temperament,  she  started  to  sing  and  do  the 
equivalent  of  a  step-dance. 

As  I  stood  there,  and  the  shadows  of  night  thickened,  I 

266 


CHIEF  KAIFA 

heard  a  voice,  and  Mr  Bones  suddenly  stepped  from  a  clump 
of  tall  fern  growth  into  the  clearing  where  we  stood. 
"  What's  up  ?  "  he  said,  and  I  knew  then  that  he  had  been 
watching  the  whole  performance.  Mabau,  who  knew  him 
well,  started  off,  with  feminine  vivacity,  to  tell  him  all  her 
trouble.  He  knew  her  language,  and  so  she  was  able  swiftly 
to  tell  her  tale.  Now  Bones,  as  I  have  said  before,  was  a 
decent  fellow,  and  he  listened  attentively  all  the  while  that 
she  spoke.  Then  he  turned  towards  me  and  said  :  "  Vituo 
is  a  treacherous  skunk,  and  if  he  plays  her  false  I  will  see  to 
it  that  he  gets  his  deserts.  Go  home,  Mabau,  for  old  Kaifa 
will  be  suspicious  of  your  being  out  this  late  hour."  Off  she 
went,  and  I  had  not  seen  her  again  till  this  meeting  by  her 
parent  Kaifa' s  home,  when  I  digressed  to  tell  you  that,  not- 
withstanding her  greeting  me  as  though  I  were  a  stranger, 
nevertheless  all  that  I  have  told  you  had  happened  between 
us. 

The  chief,  as  I  said,  gave  me  a  friendly  greeting.  I  had 
seen  him  once  before,  when  he  had  called  at  Bones's  home- 
stead and  borrowed  a  mugful  of  rum.  He  was  a  genuine 
survival  of  the  old  cannibalistic  days :  though  he  had  em- 
braced Christianity  as  best  calculated  to  serve  his  interests 
and  requirements,  for  the  Protestant  and  Roman  Catholic 
ecclesiastics  were  very  kind  to  him — he  had  embraced  both 
the  creeds — he  still,  deep  in  his  heart,  clung  tenaciously  to 
old  memories  and  the  heathen  mythologies  of  his  tribal 
ancestors. 

By  his  side  sat  Mabau,  busily  weaving  a  new  fringed  sulu 
gown,  with  varied  patterns  decorating  its  scantiness ;  for  it 
was  the  Fiji  fashion  to  reveal  as  much  as  possible  of  the  maid 
without  her  being  accused  of  being  absolutely  nude.  His 
only  surviving  wife  was  a  full-blooded  Fijian,  and  as  I  sat 
by  his  side  she  squatted  on  her  haunches,  busily  blowing, 
with  her  thick-lipped  mouth,  the  embers  of  a  tiny  fire  that 
flickered  into  a  thousand  stars,  to  be  scattered  by  her  breath, 
as  the  evening  meal  spluttered. 

Chief  Kaifa  could  speak  excellent  English,  and  as  I  stayed 
on,  and  the  hour  became  late,  he  told  me  many  things  of  the 
old  days,  of  dark  beliefs  and  also  of  the  mighty  cannibalistic 

267 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

warrior,  Thakambau.  As  he  spoke,  and  the  moon  rose  and 
lit  the  forest,  his  eyes  brightened  as  the  old  splendour 
thrilled  him,  and  Mabau,  who  sat  by  us  alone,  for  the  old 
wife  had  gone  to  bed  in  the  hut  near  by,  rested  her  chin 
on  her  hand  and  looked  up  with  sparkling  eyes,  listening 
eagerly,  and  I  saw  who  encouraged  her  and  why  she  had 
prayed  so  earnestly  to  the  old  forest  idol. 

"  O  white  mans,"  he  said,  lifting  his  dusky  arms  as  he 
spoke,  "  the  old  gods  watch  me  to-night,  and  when  I  pass 
into  shadow-land  I  shall  be  great  chief,  for  am  I  not  still 
faithful  to  them  ?  Do  I  not  cling  to  those  who  watched  over 
my  birth  and  gave  me  life  ?  "  As  he  spoke  a  strange  bird 
screamed  afar  off  in  the  forest  palms,  and  with  his  dark 
finger  to  his  lips  he  said  :  "  Woi !  Vanaka !  the  dead  speak  ! 
and  they  who  were  unfaithful  to  men  and  maids  are  being 
punished  by  the  gods  " ;  for  ere  he  finished  many  screams 
came  to  our  ears,  as  a  flock  of  migrating  wings  flapped 
under  the  moon  that  was  right  overhead. 

Mabau,  who  had  heard  this,  clapped  her  hands  with  delight, 
and  I  knew  then  that  she  had  but  little  faith  in  Vituo's 
promises;  for  I  understood  from  Bones  that  he  had  seen 
Vituo,  and  he  had  pledged  his  faithfulness  to  poor  Mabau. 
I  say  "  poor  Mabau  "  because  this  is  no  romance  that  I  tell 
you  of,  but  simply  an  incident  in  the  sad  drama  of  life  that 
came  about  through  Vituo's  unfaithfulness. 

Much  that  Chief  Kaifa  told  me  that  night,  and  on  follow- 
ing nights  that  I  spent  in  his  interesting  company,  still  lives 
vividly  in  my  memory,  and  I  think  it  will  be  interesting  to 
tell  here  some  things  I  heard  concerning  the  monstrous 
deeds  of  Thakambau  ere  the  awful  royal  cannibal  embraced 
Christianity. 

It  appeared  that  Thakambau  had  six  Fijian  maids,  who 
were  kept  in  the  royal  huts,  sheltered  and  closely  guarded  by 
his  high  chiefs ;  and  though  the  missionaries  had  landed  in 
the  Fijian  Group,  and  had  even  made  homes  on  the  isle,  he 
managed  to  keep  all  that  which  the  old  chief  told  me  a  close 
secret.  For  some  time  these  six  maids  formed  his  harem, 
and  they  were  proud  of  the  royal  favour.  In  time  two  of 
them  became  mothers,  and  when  the  babies  were  six  months 

268 


IN  SHADOWLAND 

old  the  high  chiefs  came  in  the  dead  of  night  and  took  them 
away.  As  time  wore  on,  and  Thakambau  sickened  of  the 
secret  tribal  harem,  the  mothers  disappeared  one  by  one 
also — only  a  scream  disturbed  the  forest  silence.  Then  the 
bokai  ovens,  wherein  the  dead  were  roasted,  were  made  hot, 
and  great  were  the  rejoicings  of  the  cannibalistic  natives 
and  the  tribal  grandees  who  were  favoured  by  being 
admitted  and  presented  at  the  Court  functions. 

At  last  of  the  six  erstwhile  maids  two  only  were  left,  and 
one  night  they  too  disappeared  and  ceased  to  weep,  and  the 
harem  huts  were  silent. 

Nedengi,  the  great  Fiji  god,  blessed  all  those  who  had 
joined  in  the  grand  festival  whereat  the  maids  had  been 
sacrificed ;  and  as  the  assembled  tribe  sat  in  the  terrible  forest 
arena,  drinking  kava  and  gorging  the  dead,  the  Mebete 
spirits  could  be  heard  running,  as  their  shadow-feet  sped 
across  the  midnight  moonlit  forest  that  surrounded  the 
bokai  ovens ;  and  the  cannibals  looked  affrighted  over  their 
shoulders  as  they  heard  the  wailing  cries  of  the  souls  of 
the  dead  mothers  and  maids  whom  they  were  eating  being 
pursued  by  the  souls  of  dead  warriors  and  lustful  old 
gods,  who  hungered  after  the  shadows  of  beautiful  dead 
women  ! 

"  How  terrible !  "  I  suddenly  gasped,  being  unable  to 
control  my  utterance  as  the  old  chief  told  me  these  things. 
Quickly  he  looked  up  at  me,  and  swiftly  -I  recognised  my 
mistake,  for  he  was  very  proud  of  his  dead  king  and  all  the 
horror  I  have  told  you.  Continuing,  I  said  :  "  Thakambau 
was  a  great  warrior,  and  the  mighty  Nedengi  approved  of  his 
doings,  and  sanctioned  them,  as  the  white  God  does  ours." 

Though  I  said  that,  the  old  fellow  seemed  to  understand 
my  feelings,  and  looking  at  me  half  kindly  and  half  fiercely, 
said  :  "  Nedengi  did  not  sacrifice  his  own  son  !  Nor  does 
he  send  the  helpless,  blind  souls  of  his  children  to  the  bokai 
ovens  of  hell  fires  to  burn  in  agony  for  eternity  ;  nor  did  he 
hide  in  the  dark  of  ages.  Why  did  your  mighty  one  God 
not  come  before  ?  Why  did  He  send  you  cursed  whites 
to  our  isles  to  shout  lies,  ravish  our  maids  and  steal  our 
lands  ?  Wao !  Wao  !  Why  smash  our  idols  ?  Show  me  this 

269 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

great  white  God  !  Where,  where  is  this  Thing  you  prate 
about  ?  Where  ?  "  Saying  this,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
skies,  and  so  vehemently  did  he  rattle  on,  and  so  many 
things  did  he  say  that  smacked  of  the  truth,  that  for  a 
moment  I  hung  my  head  and  felt  as  though  I  were  the 
heathen  and  he  the  Christian. 

Bidding  the  fierce  old  fellow  good-night,  I  went  swiftly 
across  the  flats,  crept  into  the  Home  of  the  Fallen,  by  Rewa 
river,  and  slept. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  I  met  the  treacherous  Vituo. 
Bones  introduced  me  to  him,  and  as  I  nodded  my  friend  gave 
me  a  wink  and  so  I  assumed  more  politeness.  I  was  much 
surprised  by  Vituo' s  appearance,  for  though  he  was  a  half- 
caste  his  complexion  was  almost  European.  Certainly  he 
was  of  a  type  which  would  appear  handsome  to  Fijian 
womenkind,  and  from  his  manner  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  he 
was  a  mixture  of  the  swashbuckler  and  cavalier.  I  pitied 
little  Mabau  exceedingly,  for  she  would,  night  after  night, 
come  over  to  see  us,  and  I  knew  that  she  came  full  of  hope 
that  she  might  meet  Vituo,  who  often  came  down  the  Rewa 
to  help  the  traders,  and  to  take  up  cargoes  of  copra  and 
many  other  things  that  grew  on  the  plantations  which 
were  cultivated  and  toiled  over  by  the  natives. 

I  stayed  with  Bones  for  some  days ;  he  was  extremely 
kind  to  me,  and  I  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  getting 
a  rest,  and,  moreover,  the  men  who  lived  with  him  were 
strange  characters  and  extremely  interesting.  Often  new 
arrivals  came,  some  with  heavy  beards  and  some  clean 
shaven,  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of  disguise. 

One  old  man,  whose  name  was  Enoch,  was  a  quaint  old 
chap  and  fondly  loved  rum.  I  do  not  know  what  he  had 
done  in  his  native  land — which  I  believe  was  Australia — but 
at  night  he  would  shout  in  his  sleep  and,  suddenly  awaking, 
sit  up  and  gasp,  and  gaze  with  relief  on  the  bunks  around  him, 
wherein  slept  the  weary  heads  of  the  fallen.  Now  Enoch 
was  very  artful,  for  he  found  out  that  I  was  the  rum-keeper 
and  so  it  was  my  duty  to  share  out,  and  night  after  night  I 
was  obliged  to  get  out  of  my  bed  and  give  him  tots  of  rum  to 
allay  the  awful  pain  which  a  toothache  was  giving  him.  For 

270 


MY  LITTLE  FRIENDS 

several  nights  this  kind  of  thing  went  on.  I  advised  him  at 
length  to  go  to  Suva  and  get  the  offensive  molar  pulled  out, 
but  no,  he  would  not  hear  of  it.  At  last,  after  a  wretched 
week  of  nights  disturbed  by  his  groans  and  appeals  for 
rum,  I  happened  to  tell  him  a  joke,  and  as  he  opened  his 
mouth  wide  with  laughter  I  saw  to  my  disgust  that  he  was 
toothless  ! 

Often  I  went  out  into  the  forest  and,  placing  my  music  in 
the  fork  of  a  tree,  stood  and  practised  my  violin.  The  native 
children  would  hear,  and  come  peeping  through  the  tall 
fern  and  grass  to  listen.  They  became  my  little  friends.  I 
taught  them  to  dance  around  me,  and  they  screamed  with 
delight ! 

Several  times  Mabau  came  to  see  us,  but  Vituo  did  not 
keep  his  promises.  She  would  stand  at  the  Organization 
door  for  hours  watching  the  sunset  fade  over  the  hills,  and 
then  with  staring  eyes  look  down  the  long  white  track, 
where  once  he  had  so  eagerly  come  singing,  to  fall  into  her 
arms.  Bones  and  I,  and  even  old  Enoch,  would  strive  to 
cheer  her  up.  I  used  to  play  the  violin  and  get  her  to  sing 
with  her  soft,  plaintive  voice  some  of  the  lotu  hymns,  and 
so  in  this  way  divert  her  mind  from  thinking  of  her  faithless 
lover.  For,  to  tell  the  truth,  Vituo  was  now  only  interested 
in  a  white  woman  who  was  staying  at  Suva.  Bones  knew  of 
this,  and  told  me  all  about  it,  and  so  we  all  felt  deeply  sorry 
for  Mabau.  In  my  heart  I  hated  the  treacherous  half-caste 
for  his  heartless  behaviour.  Time  was  going  on,  and  Mabau's 
open  disgrace  fast  approaching,  and,  as  Bones  said,  it  would 
not  be  well  for  her,  or  Vituo  either,  when  the  truth  was  out. 
The  old  chief,  her  father,  still  had  a  huge  war-club  which 
was  the  equivalent  of  Fijian  law,  and  there  was  no  telling 
what  might  happen  when  her  condition  was  no  longer  a 
secret.  Poor  Mabau !  I  still  remember  her  melancholy  as  I 
made  her  sing  while  I  played  the  low  notes  on  the  violin,  for 
she  could  follow  easily  the  chords  on  the  G  string,  but  as  the 
bow  travelled  up  the  scale  to  the  higher  notes  her  ear  seemed 
to  fail  her.  It  was  interesting  to  listen  to  her  wild  voice, 
which  so  easily  sang  melodies  in  the  minor  key,  though  as 
soon  as  I  played  in  the  major  key  her  voice  seemed  to  grip 

271 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

hold  of  the  notes  and  slowly  drift  the  strain  from  the  major 
to  the  minor. 

One  night  we  were  suddenly  surprised  by  one  of  our  com- 
panions appearing  at  the  Organization  door  with  two  new 
members.  They  were  dark-looking  men  ;  one  was  extremely 
handsome  and  very  polite,  indeed  almost  courtly  in  his 
salutations  as  he  gently  brushed  the  mug's  rim  and  swallowed 
the  proffered  rum.  Enoch,  Mabau  and  I,  sitting  on  our  tubs, 
watched  them  intently  as  they  stood  side  by  side  and  spoke 
in  broken  English  to  Bones,  who  seemed  quite  satisfied  with 
their  credentials,  for  they  were  escaped  convicts  from 
Numea.  They  were  unshaved  and  very  disreputable-look- 
ing, but  after  a  wash,  shave  and  brush-up  were  considerably 
changed  for  the  better,  and  I  discovered  that  they  were  as 
gentle  and  intelligent  as  they  looked.  Reviere,  the  younger 
—that  was  not  his  real  name — had,  in  a  fit  of  jealousy,  shot 
a  rival  in  Paris,  and  so  had  been  transported  to  New  Cale- 
donia, the  French  penal  settlement,  from  where  convicts 
often  escaped  to  live  exiled  lives  in  the  islands  or  Australian 
cities. 

Reviere  fell  in  love  with  Mabau.  He  and  I  became  very 
good  friends,  and  though  I  told  him  of  Vituo  and  all  the 
trouble,  still  he  gazed  upon  Mabau  as  she  softly  sang  with 
eyes  that  seemed  never  to  tire  of  gazing  in  her  direction. 

Reviere  had  been  exiled  in  a  convict  prison  for  over  five 
years,  and  Mabau  being  the  first  woman  whom  he  had  spoken 
to  since  he  escaped  from  incarceration,  his  infatuation  for  the 
Fijian  maid  was  not  so  surprising  as  it  would  have  been  under 
normal  circumstances.  Alas,  though  Mabau  approved  of 
his  tenderness  to  her,  and  seemed  somewhat  flattered  at  his 
admiring  gaze,  she  did  not  encourage  him ;  for,  notwith- 
standing the  undress  costume  of  the  islanders  and  the  loose- 
ness of  the  sexes  in  the  native  villages,  Fijian  maids  were  as 
modest  as,  and  if  anything  more  faithful  to  their  lovers  than, 
the  maids  of  civilised  lands  sometimes  are. 

For  two  nights  Mabau  disappeared,  and  Bones  being  away 
on  a  trading  trip,  Reviere  and  I  left  the  Organization  officials 
playing  dominoes  and  drinking  rum  and  went  off  south  of  the 
Rewa  river  exploring;  for  we  had  heard  that  the  natives 

272 


THE  MEKE  FESTIVAL 

were  having  high  sprees  inland  and  that  the  Meke  festival 
dances  were  in  full  swing. 

It  was  nearly  dusk  as  we  wandered  along  by  the  tropical 
palms  and  fern  that  grew  thickly  by  the  tiny  track  which 
we  followed.  Going  across  a  pine-apple  plantation  we  once 
more  got  on  to  the  native  road,  and  before  the  stars  in  heaven 
were  at  their  brightest  we  emerged  from  the  thick  bush 
growth  and  entered  a  clearing  that  extended  to  the  native 
village  homesteads  that  stood  under  the  palms  and  banyans 
across  the  flat. 

It  was  a  wonderful  sight  that  appeared  before  us ;  for  the 
old  chieftains,  and  native  women  also,  were  dressed  in  war 
costume,  their  bodies  swathed  in  bandages  of  grass  and 
flowers,  and  as  they  danced  wildly  they  made  the  scene 
impressively  weird.  The  general  musical  effect  sounded  like 
a  Wagnerian  orchestra  being  played  out  of  tempo  and 
tune,  but  the  legendary  atmosphere  was  perfect.  It  also 
possessed  the  barbarian  note  of  Wagnerian  music,  which 
so  wonderfully  expresses  the  German  nature  and  shows 
that  Wagner  was  a  genius  for  true  expression  and  an- 
ticipation. 

The  moon  came  up  and  intensified  the  barbaric  atmosphere 
that  pervaded  the  excited  village.  From  the  hut  doors 
peeped  the  tiny  dark  faces  of  the  native  children,  who 
applauded  with  vigour  the  escapades  of  their  old  grand- 
mother or  grandfather,  who,  back  once  again  in  the  revived 
memories  of  heathen  days,  threw  their  skinny  legs  skyward 
and  did  many  grotesque  movements  that  seemed  impossible 
to  old  age  and  the  stern  decorum  which  those  little  children 
had  erstwhile  been  used  to  from  their  august  parents. 
Round  the  space,  to  the  primitive  music  of  thumped  wooden 
drums  (lais)  and  the  hooting  of  bamboo  reeds,  they  whirled ; 
and  then  suddenly  the  vigorous  antics  would  cease  and  all 
would  start  walking  round  in  a  circle,  as  the  maids,  almost 
nude,  except  for  a  blossom  or  a  little  grass  tied  about  them, 
joined  in,  opened  their  thick-lipped  mouths  in  unison  and 
chanted  some  old  strain  that  smacked  more  of  heathenism 
than  of  the  Christianity  which  most  of  them  were  supposed 
to  have  embraced.  Under  the  coco-palms  hard  by  sat 
s  273 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

several  old  women  who  dealt  in  South  Sea  witchcraft.  I 
never  saw  such  pathetically  hideous  old  hags  as  they  were. 
Their  faces  wrinkled  up  to  a  breathing-map  of  sin  and  vice 
as  they  put  their  fingers  to  their  shrivelled  lips  and  warned 
the  innocent  girls  of  sorrows  to  come,  foretelling  dire  dis- 
aster, or  the  reverse,  to  those  who  appealed  to  them  for 
prophecies. 

Many  of  the  maidens  from  the  surrounding  villages  came 
running  up  the  bush  track  and  delightedly  joined  in  the 
circling  ring  of  dancers.  A  few  of  the  latter,  who  belonged 
to  the  low-caste  toiling  natives,  availed  themselves  of  the 
opportunity  to  show  their  figures  off,  and  though  the 
majority  of  the  dancers  were  innocent  enough,  in  their 
way,  these  looser  ones  swayed  about  and  went  'through 
preposterous  antics,  endeavouring  to  please  the  eyes  of  the 
semi-savage  native  men  who  squatted  round  as  sightseers. 
Great  was  their  applause  at  frequent  intervals,  and  deep 
the  pleasure  of  those  women  who  eagerly  sought  to  please 
the  eyes  of  prospective  husbands. 

Reviere  and  I  stood  watching  this  scene ;  neither  of  us 
spoke,  so  deeply  were  we  interested  in  all  about  us.  Then  I 
touched  Reviere,  and  told  him  to  look  behind  him ;  there 
sat  Mabau  at  the  feet  of  a  villainous-looking  old  witch  who, 
responding  to  her  pleadings,  was  doubtless  telling  Mabau 
how  to  win  back  Vituo's  love.  There  she  sat,  that  artless, 
deceived  maid,  rubbing  together  the  magic  sticks  and  repeat- 
ing word  for  word  all  that  the  old  witch  told  her.  It 
sounded  in  this  wise :  "  O  wao,  we  wao,  wai  wai,  O  mio 
mio,  mio  mi "  ;  and  so  on,  over  and  over  again.  Poor  little 
Mabau,  how  fast  she  rubbed  the  magic  sticks  as,  unperceived, 
Reviere  and  I  watched  her  from  the  shadows  and  the  old 
crony  picked  her  two  black  front  teeth  with  a  bone  skewer 
and  thought  over  some  new  phrase  for  Mabau  and  the  other 
maids  to  repeat  after  her.  Many  maids  appealed  to  her  and 
rubbed  the  sticks,  some  crossways  and  some  down  ways,  as 
they  thought  of  the  bonny  promised  babies  that  would  be 
theirs.  Two  ugly  old  divorced  wives,  who  had  been  fore- 
told new  husbands  and  children  if  they  rubbed  the  magic 
sticks  the  right  way,  rubbed  and  rubbed  so  hard  that  their 

274 


THE  OLD-TIME  MISSIONARY 

dark  bodies  were  steaming  with  perspiration  in  the  moon- 
light ! 

Neither  of  us  approached  Mabau  as  we  watched  ;  we  saw 
why  she  had  been  absent  from  us  for  two  nights.  We  had 
no  doubt  that  each  night  she  had  sat  at  the  black  crone's 
feet,  listening  to  her  prophecies  and  doing  all  she  told  her  to 
do  with  those  bits  of  stick,  while  Vituo,  away  in  Suva,  made 
love  to  the  young  white  woman  and  thought  no  more  of 
Mabau,  who  was  to  bring  down  vengeance  on  his  head  for 
his  sins. 

Next  night  Mabau  watched  at  the  trysting-place  for  the 
old  witch's  prophecies  to  be  fulfilled,  but  found  that  Vituo 
did  not  come  as  had  been  foretold,  so  as  she  knew  of  an  old 
and  lonely  missionary  who  lived  some  eight  miles  from  the 
spot  where  Reviere  and  I  witnessed  the  native  fete,  she  told 
us  that  she  would  go  and  visit  the  good  white  man  and  see  if 
he  could  help  her  in  her  sorrow.  Finding  out  from  Bones 
where  the  recluse  lived,  I,  being  deeply  interested,  went  off 
the  following  afternoon  to  see  him.  After  four  hours'  hard 
walking  I  inquired  from  some  natives,  and  following  a  track 
which  was  thickly  covered  with  thangi-thangi  and  drala 
growth,  arrived  at  Naraundrau,  which  was  situated  south- 
east of  the  Rewa  river  and  not  far  from  the  seashore.  There 
in  a  secluded  spot  close  by  a  stream  was  a  small,  neatly 
thatched  homestead.  As  I  approached  all  seemed  silent, 
deserted  and  overgrown  ;  the  trees  that  shaded  the  hut-like 
home  were  heavy  with  thick,  human-hand-shaped  leaves, 
which  intensified  the  gloom  and  isolation.  I  coughed 
purposely  ;  the  door  opened,  and  there,  framed  in  the  door- 
way, stood  a  tall,  stooping,  grey-bearded  man  of  about 
seventy  or  seventy-five  years  of  age. 

"  Welcome,  my  son,"  he  said  as  I  introduced  myself,  and 
he  noticed  that  I  was  tired,  for  the  heat  of  the  sun  had  been 
terrific  and  I  was  parched  with  thirst.  I  had  brought  my 
violin  with  me  for  companionship  and  safety  ;  though  I  had 
great  faith  in  the  Organization  officials,  I  did  not  wish  to 
tempt  their  integrity  by  leaving  my  instrument  behind. 


275 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Father  Anster — Fijian  Legendary  Lore — Forest  Graves — The  Blind 
Chief — Mythology  and  Love-making — Falling  Stars — The 
Change — A  Drove  of  Native  Children — The  Village  Missionary 
— A  Native  Supper — An  Old  Chief's  Reminiscences — Fijian 
Poets  and  Musicians — A  Tribute  to  the  Humbug  of  Civilisation 

I  SAT  and  gazed  round  that  little  lonely  homestead  by 
the  shore-side  at  Naraundrau.  The  scent  of  the  jungle 
blooms  and  dead  grass  crept  into  my  nostrils  as  soft 
winds  came  up  from  the  sea,  blew  in  at  the  small  doorway 
and  fell  asleep  in  the  leafy  hollows.  Opposite  the  doorway, 
by  his  broken  coloured-glass  window,  sat  the  missionary  to 
whom  Mabau  had  appealed.  He  had  already  given  her  his 
advice. 

He  was  a  venerable-looking  old  man,  with  earnest,  sunken 
grey  eyes.  As  his  aged,  bearded  lips  moved,  and  he  spoke 
in  a  sensitive,  musical  voice,  I  at  once  felt  a  liking  for  him, 
and  I  seemed  to  be  back  in  the  days  of  an  age  that  had  long 
since  passed  away.  For  this  lonely  old  missionary  was  the 
sole  survivor  of  the  first  white  men  who  had  exiled  themselves 
from  their  native  lands  with  the  one  intense  motive  only  in 
their  hearts — to  endeavour  to  preach  the  word  of  Christ  and 
better  the  conditions  of  heathen  lands.  No  ambition  in  his 
mind  had  craved  for  recognition  ;  he  had  done  his  day's  work, 
and  there,  weighed  down  with  years,  he  waited  sadly,  yet 
patiently,  the  last  act  of  life's  drama,  the  call  of  his  Creator, 
to  whose  service  he  had  devoted  his  earnest  existence.  He 
died,  quite  unknown  to  men  on  earth,  for  if  men  do  not 
strive  for  fame  it  seldom  will  come  to  them,  unless  they  do 
not  deserve  it. 

41  My  son,  what  brings  you  this  wayr?  "  he  said,  and  his 
grey  eyes  gazed  kindly  at  me. 

"Father,"  I  said  respectfully,  "I  heard  of  you  from 
Mabau,  the  native  girl  who  sorrows  over  her  faithless  lover, 

276 


A  FEATHERED  PHILOSOPHER 

and  since  hearing  of  you  it  has  been  my  wish  to  meet  you, 
and  here  I  am." 

Hearing  my  answer,  the  old  man  looked  intently  at  me, 
and  to  my  great  pleasure  I  saw  that  I  had  impressed  him 
favourably.  "  Art  thou  hungry,  lad  ?  "  he  said.  "  No,  not 
hungry,  but  I  am  exceedingly  thirsty,  Father,"  I  answered ; 
and  at  that  he  at  once  brought  out,  from  a  little  wooden  cup- 
board by  his  side  two  coco-nuts,  and  with  trembling  fingers 
pierced  the  holes  with  a  screw.  Very  thankful  I  was  as  I 
drank  off  a  tin  pannikin  full  to  the  brim  of  the  refreshing 
fruit  milk.  After  that  I  felt  much  refreshed  and  more  at  my 
ease,  as  I  talked  to  my  host. 

At  his  bidding  I  took  my  violin  from  its  case  and  played 
the  Ah  die  la  morte  from  //  Trovatore  to  him.  As  the  strain 
died  away,  and  silently  I  laid  the  fiddle  down,  he  crossed  his 
hands  over  his  breast  and  sat  in  the  gloom,  for  night  was 
falling  fast.  He  looked  like  an  old,  grey-bearded  apostle 
carved  in  stone  as  he  sat  there. 

"  My  son,  thou  playest  well,  and  I  am  thankful  for  thy 
visit,"  he  murmured ;  and  I  was  touched  and  highly  pleased, 
for  deep  in  my  heart  I  suddenly  felt  a  tenderness  for  the 
lonely  old  missionary.  I  saw  by  the  way  he  crossed  his 
hands  that  he  was  a  Roman  Catholic.  I  am  a  Protestant 
by  birthright,  but  his  sincerity  made  me  feel  more  attached 
to  his  denomination  than  my  own. 

As  night  fell  and  the  stars  came  out  he  became  more 
talkative  and  unburdened  himself  to  me,  a  fact  which  I 
always  remember  with  pride,  for  he  would  not  have  done  so 
if  he  had  not  felt  instinctively  that  my  heart  was  in  sympathy 
with  his. 

Rising  and  lighting  an  old  oil  lamp,  he  stood  it  on  the 
window-shelf,  and  its  faint  flicker  lit  up  his  room.  In  the 
corner  was  a  sleeping-mat,  for  he  slept  on  the  floor  in  native 
fashion.  His  furniture  consisted  of  two  wooden  stools,  a 
small  bench  table  and  a  few  cooking  utensils.  Outside  the 
door  in  a  cage  was  a  large  grey  parrot ;  it  looked  as  old  as  its 
master,  was  almost  featherless  and  seldom  spoke.  But  now 
and  again  it  would  gaze  sideways  at  me  and  without  open- 
ing its  tuneless  beak  say  in  a  sepulchral  voice,  "  Good-bye, 

277 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

good-bye,"  as  though  it  were  jealous  of  my  conversation 
with  its  lonely  master.  It  was  a  wise  old  bird,  mistrusted 
strangers  and  realised  that  old  age  could  be  tempted  and 
led  away  from  old  friendships  by  the  voice  of  youth. 

As  we  sat  there  together  the  moon  came  out  and  shone 
brilliantly  over  the  sea,  outdoing  the  dimness  of  his  oil  lamp  ; 
so  brightly  did  it  shine  over  the  palms  that  one  could  easily 
have  read  ordinary  print. 

Taking  an  old  flute  down,  he  started  to  play  upon  it,  and 
then  with  a  sigh  laid  it  back  on  the  shelf  and  asked  me  if 
I  should  care  to  stay  the  night.  "  Yes,"  I  immediately 
answered.  We  went  out  and  strolled  in  the  moonlight,  and 
he  told  me  much  of  Fiji  in  the  old  days.  Though  he  was  a 
poor  and  aged  man,  with  only  the  moonlit  forest  flowers  as 
his  friends,  flowers  that  would  some  day  blossom  over  his 
fast-dissolving  dust,  the  largess  of  his  sincere  heart,  all 
that  he  told  me,  has  been  vast  wealth  to  my  memories 
through  the  years,  and  his  dead  voice  has  haunted  my 
dreams  at  times. 

He  too  told  me  of  Thakambau ;  he  had  known  him  in 
his  worst  days,  and  spoke  with  the  famous  warrior  king 
when  he  had  at  length,  after  many  councils  with  his  chiefs, 
decided  to  embrace  Christianity. 

As  we  strolled  under  the  straight-stemmed  palms  the 
silvered  moonlit  waves  splashed  over  the  coral  reefs  below, 
and  across  the  waters,  like  a  weird  shadow,  passed  a  canoe 
filled  with  singing  natives. 

"  Who  sleeps  there  ?  "  I  asked  him  as  we  passed  a  mound 
of  earth  whereon  was  a  cross  half  hidden  in  drala  weed. 
He  told  me  that  it  was  the  grave  of  a  white  man  who  had 
left  a  ship  at  Viti  Levu  and  had  become  attached  to  the  wife 
of  a  notable  chief.  The  chief  discovered  them  together  by 
the  shore,  and  after  a  terrible  battle,  the  white  man  with  a 
rifle-butt  and  the  chief  with  a  club,  the  white  man  fell 
mortally  wounded.  In  the  struggle  the  native  wife  was  shot 
dead,  and  her  spirit,  the  natives  say,  was  carried  on  wings  of 
fire  up  through  the  trees  towards  the  stars  that  light  the 
shores  of  that  heathen  land  which  was  ruled  by  Mburotu. 
The  missionary  told  me  that  he  crept  through  the  forest  and 

278 


SPIRITUAL  FATHERHOOD 

with  his  own  hands  dug  a  grave  under  the  pandanus  palms 
for  the  slain  body  of  the  white  man,  and  night  after  night  he 
came  and  prayed  fervently  over  the  man  of  his  race,  asking 
God  to  forgive  and  grant  to  his  soul  salvation. 

I  was  much  impressed  as  he  told  me  these  things,  and  also 
by  seeing  how,  as  we  walked  along,  he  would  tenderly  bend 
and  touch  the  tall  flowers  with  his  lips.  "  Under  them  sleeps 
the  child  I  loved,  or  the  chief  who  fell  in  some  bloody  tribal 
fight,"  he  would  say ;  and  he  told  me  also  that  often  in  the 
Fijian  wilds  men,  women  and  children  were  buried  in  spots 
known  only  to  those  who  loved  and  buried  them. 

That  same  night  as  we  walked  along  the  narrow  track  by 
the  shore-side  at  Naraundrau  the  aged  missionary  took  me 
gently  by  the  arm  and,  turning  up  the  inland  track,  we  stood 
by  a  native's  conical-shaped  hut.  In  it  sat  an  old,  almost 
blind  chief,  the  half-brother  of  Vakambau,  a  great  warrior 
who  was  dead.  It  appeared  that  he  loved  the  missionary, 
and  though  he  would  not  give  up  his  heathen  faith  had, 
owing  to  the  supplications  of  my  host,  half  embraced 
Christianity. 

It  was  the  habit  of  the  Father  to  call  night  after  night  and 
pray  with  the  old  heathen  chief  before  he  slept.  I  felt  very 
strange  as  I  stood  watching  the  white  man  and  the  old 
Fijian  kneeling  side  by  side  praying,  while  three  old  women 
squatting  in  the  corner  of  the  den  gazed  on  silently,  as 
though  they  were  carved  stone  images.  They  were  his 
servants ;  being  of  Fijian  royal  blood,  he  would  not  move 
himself.  Often  as  he  sat  there  he  imperiously  pointed  to 
a  stone  flask  wherein  was  some  yangona*  and  at  once  the 
slaves  of  royalty,  with  machine-like  swiftness,  filled  a  stone 
bowl  and  held  it  to  his  lips.  Suddenly  starting  up,  he  rushed 
to  the  den  door  and  gazed  up  at  the  trees,  shouting,  "  Wai, 
wai,  taho  mi,"  then  waved  his  arms,  lifted  his  chin  towards 
the  stars  and  called  to  the  memory  of  dead  warriors  and 
comrades  dead  with  heathen  gods.  As  the  Pacific  wind 
sighed  softly  through  the  giant  backa-trees  he  bowed  his 
head  reverently,  for  to  him  so  answered  the  gods. 

I  stayed  that  night  with  the  missionary,  and  the  next  day 
1  Native  wine  made  from  a  root. 
279 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

and  night  also,  and  heard  many  strange  things.  Beautiful 
were  some  of  the  legends  of  the  forest  children  that  my  host 
told  me.  The  stars  were  the  eyes  of  the  fiercer  gods,  and  the 
falling  stars  the  bright  tears  of  the  powerful  Muburto  and 
Nedengi's  warriors.  Fijian  maidens  and  youths  prayed  to 
the  eyes  of  shadow-land,  and  if,  as  their  impassioned  lips  met, 
a  star  fell  and  arched  over  them  in  the  vault  of  night,  great 
was  their  sorrow,  for  a  god  had  shed  a  tear  over  the  grief  that 
would  befall  the  life  of  the  first-born.  But  if,  ere  the  lovers 
said  farewell,  more  stars  fell,  great  was  their  rejoicing,  for  it 
was  a  sign  that  other  gods  were  pleading  to  the  greater  god 
to  stay  the  evil  that  was  predestined  by  the  first  star  that 
burst  out  of  the  dark  soul  of  evil  Destiny.  So,  notwith- 
standing heathenism  and  the  gruesome  cannibalistic  customs 
of  the  old  times,  much  innocence  and  poetry  softened  the 
hearts  of  the  wild  native  children  of  those  dim  lands.  It 
was  a  common  sight  by  night  in  the  shade  of  the  coco-palms 
to  see  love-sick  maids  in  the  arms  of  the  Fijian  youths, 
gazing  at  the  skies,  yearning  for  the  sight  of  the  vast  gods 
shedding  starry  tears  on  their  behalf,  and  often  great  was 
their  delight  to  find  the  foretold  grief  to  their  first-born  over- 
thrown by  the  power  of  other  gods.  Then  the  innocent 
maids  gave  themselves,  body  and  soul,  to  the  infatuated, 
delighted  youths,  and  fell  with  the  falling  of  the  stars  ! 
When  the  stars  on  windy  nights  twinkled  fiercely  through  the 
wailing  boughs  of  the  bending  forest  giants,  lovers  gazed 
heavenward  anxiously,  for  to  them  the  glimmering  stars 
were  the  tiny  bright  legs  of  their  unborn  children  running 
happily  across  the  fields  of  paradise.  Often,  too,  sorrowing 
mothers  would  peer  up  for  hours  on  those  windy,  starlit 
nights,  as  they  watched  their  dead  children's  bright  legs 
twinkling  as  they  ran  laughing  over  the  forest  trees  in  the 
far-off  fields  of  shadow-land. 

As  I  heard  these  beliefs  of  the  forest  I  thought  of  Mabau, 
and  wondered  whether,  while  she  was  in  the  arms  of  Vituo,  the 
stars  had  fallen,  and  in  her  poetic  faith  she  had  given  herself 
to  him;  and  I  saw  that  though  the  native  legends  were 
beautiful,  it  was  sad  for  the  maids  ;  for  the  stars  foretold 
many  things  that  did  not  come  to  pass,  and  mythology, 


COURAGE  BORN  OF  FAITH 

when  applied  to  morals,  brought  much  sorrow  to  those 
that  loved. 

The  aged  missionary  spoke  the  language  like  a  native  and 
so,  through  mixing  with  the  remnants  of  his  old  flock  for 
years,  isolated  as  he  was,  knew  all  their  ways  and  their 
passions  and  aspirations.  He  told  me  that  the  mythology 
and  religions  of  the  South  Seas  revealed,  through  their 
poetic,  heathen  expression,  much  that  was  "  new  thought  " 
in  modern  Europe,  and  that  all  those  things  which  the  great 
minds  of  my  country  had  discussed  and  the  nobleness  they 
had  overthrown  by  their  doctrine  of  the  "  survival  of  the 
fittest,"  a  doctrine  bringing  the  whole  creed  of  self-sacrifice 
and  bravery  down  to  selfish  motives,  had  been  discussed  and 
expressed  in  mythology  and  heathen  song  by  the  canni- 
balistic bards  and  philosophical  savages  at  the  bokai  feasts 
of  those  heathen  lands. 

Lands  where  maidens  gave  their  lives  for  their  lovers,  and 
wives  for  their  husbands,  for  it  had  been  the  custom  that 
when  a  chief  died  his  wife  should  be  buried  alive  with  him  ; 
and  so  strong  was  the  faith  of  these  people  that  they  met 
their  terrible  end  bravely,  and  sang  death  songs,  which  could 
be  heard  faint  and  muffled  as  the  tombstone  closed  over 
them.  It  was  even  then  the  custom  of  maids  to  die  and  be 
buried  with  their  dead  lovers,  their  belief  being  that  they 
appeared  before  the  gods  as  they  died.  Those  who  thought 
themselves  young  and  beautiful  sacrificed  themselves,  so 
that  in  spirit-land  they  might  be  ever  young  and  fortunate 
in  their  love  affairs.  Often  I  saw  skeletons  in  caves,  which 
were  the  remains  of  old  age ;  they  had  been  strangled  by 
their  relatives  to  avoid  further  trouble  from  the  complainings 
of  their  infirmities. 

On  the  night  preceding  my  last  day  with  the  old  missionary 
Mabau,  the  native  girl,  came  to  him  as  sunset  was  fading 
over  the  seas.  As  the  shadows  crept  and  thickened  around 
the  hermit's  home  a  noise  of  naked  feet  in  the  jungle  grass 
disturbed  us.  A  gentle  tap  at  the  door  revealed  Mabau' s 
dusky  face.  I  understood  little  that  she  said,  for  she  spoke 
in  her  own  language  to  my  host,  but  I  saw  by  her  eyes  and 
trembling  lips  that  she  was  sorely  troubled.  After  hearing 

281 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

the  Father's  advice  she  became  calmer,  and  falling  on  her 
knees  kissed  his  extended  hand  and  bearded  face  as  a  child 
would  kiss  its  father ;  then,  without  speaking  a  word,  she 
ran  off  swiftly  into  the  forest. 

The  old  missionary  asked  me  many  questions  as  to  where 
I  was  staying,  upon  which  I  told  him  of  Mr  Bones.  Hearing 
this,  he  gravely  shook  his  head  and  scanned  me  solemnly. 
"  You  look  an  honest  lad  and  well  able  to  take  care  of  your- 
self," he  said ;  and  then  I  explained  to  him  how  I  had  left  my 

ship  at  S because  I  could  not  stand  a  drunken  crew,  and 

that  was  the  true  reason  for  my  accepting  the  Organization's 
hospitality.  From  him  I  heard  that  a  week  or  so  before  I 
arrived  a  fugitive  had  appeared  at  the  Organization  and  the 
second  day  after  had  shot  himself.  Bones  had  hastily  called 
on  the  Father,  who  delivered  the  Sacrament  to  the  dying 
man,  who,  ere  his  breath  ceased,  made  his  confession.  The 
Father  did  not  reveal  the  facts  to  me,  but  I  heard  them  from 
the  lips  of  a  high-caste  Fijian  with  whom  I  stayed  between 
my  visits  to  the  Organization's  shanty.  For  after  the  first 
few  days  I  only  called  upon  Mr  Bones  as  a  visitor,  taken 
there  through  my  adventurous  spirit,  and  for  the  novelty 
of  associating  with  old  villains  and  seeing  the  sad  fugitives 
who  arrived  from  the  far-off  cities  of  the  world. 

That  night  as  I  lay  by  my  hermit  host  I  watched  him  as 
he  quietly  slept  on  his  sleeping-mat ;  moonlight  streamed 
through  the  tiny  window  hole  and  revealed  his  careworn, 
bearded  face.  Still  as  death  he  lay  as  the  breeze  crept  into 
the  open  door  and  stirred  the  few  grey  hairs  above  his  lofty 
brow.  The  beating  of  the  seas  on  the  shore  sounded  at 
intervals  and  died  away ;  the  shadow  leaves  of  the  palms 
outside  moved  gently  over  the  wooden  moonlit  walls,  over 
his  grey-bearded  face  and  crossed  hands.  I  felt  that  I  was 
back  in  the  Middle  Ages,  in  some  mysterious  mediaeval 
monastery,  instead  of  in  that  heathen  land  of  dying  crime 
and  bloodthirsty  cannibalism,  where  but  a  few  years  before 
Thakambau,  the  warrior  king,  who  now  lay  in  the  grave  not 
far  off  at  Bau,  sailed  forth  from  the  creeks  below  to  give 
battle  to  rival  kings,  accompanied  by  his  armada  of  outrigged 
canoes.  As  I  dreamed  I  heard  the  restless  seas  below,  I  saw 

282 


MUSIC  OF  THE  SOUL 

those  primitive  fleets  of  canoes  fading  in  the  sunset,  filled 
with  dark,  savage,  patriotic  faces,  and  the  stalwart  cannibal 
king  leaning  on  his  war-club  and  gazing  proudly  as  he  stood 
eyeing  the  canoes  of  his  warriors  paddling  along  to  meet  the 
tribal  foe.  It  was  almost  unbelievable  how  swiftly  change, 
through  the  coming  of  the  white  men,  had  overthrown  the 
cannibalistic  festivals  and  heathen  customs  :  at  Levuka, 
Viti  Levu  and  Suva  church  spires  were  rising  where  the  bokai 
feast  and  fierce  songs  once  broke  the  silence ;  from  native 
homes  now  come  the  strumming  of  cheap  German  pianos 
and  lotu  songs  sung  by  mouths  that  a  few  years  before  had 
eaten  those  they  had  loved. 

At  daybreak  Father  Anster,  the  old  missionary,  rose  and 
prepared  breakfast,  after  which  he  took  his  flute  from  the 
shelf  and  played  one  tune  over  and  over  again  continually ; 
and  the  old  featherless  parrot  in  the  cage  tried  desperately 
to  repeat  the  notes  through  its  tuneless  beak  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  made  as  much  mess  of  the  melody  as  my  host  did ;  for 
though  he  had  music  in  his  soul,  his  lips  were  unable  to  express 
it.  There  he  sat,  holding  the  flute  to  his  aged  lips  and  blow- 
ing away ;  and  though  I  know  he  must  now  be  dead,  hallowed 
dust  somewhere  near  that  spot  where  I  saw  him  years  ago, 
still  I  can  see  him  sitting  by  his  little  doorway,  and  see  the 
kind  look  in  his  eyes  as  I  bade  him  farewell  and  passed  away 
into  the  forest,  with  the  thought  and  promise  to  see  him  again 
in  a  few  days. 

As  I  strolled  along  under  the  palms  and  big  tropical  trees 
I  fell  into  deep  thought ;  everything  was  silent,  except  a  few 
birds  singing  to  the  sunset,  which  they  could  spy  from  the 
topmost  boughs  whereon  they  sat.  Suddenly  I  was  startled 
by  hearing  a  noise,  and  crossing  the  gullies  I  went  down 
a  steep  slope  and  peeped  through  the  jungle  thickets  of 
bamboo  beneath  the  coco-palms  to  see  what  was  about, 
and  there,  romping  in  the  deep  fern  grass,  was  a  flock  of 
naked  native  children,  tiny  wild  faces,  boys  and  girls.  As  I 
watched  my  foot  slipped.  In  a  moment  they  all  looked  up 
and  their  bright  eyes  spied  me.  Like  a  drove  of  rabbits  off 
they  bolted,  their  little  brown  shoulders  and  tossing  heads  of 
frizzly  hair  just  reaching  the  fern-tops  as  they  raced  away  and 

283 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

faded  in  the  distant  forest  gloom,  frightened  out  of  their  lives. 
A  stream  of  sunset  out  seaward  crept  through  the  wind- 
blown forest  boughs  and  glinted  over  them  as  they  ran,  till 
they  looked  like  tiny  wood-elves  racing  across  fairyland  !  I 
never  saw  such  a  pretty  sight.  In  fun  I  ran  after  them,  and 
two  little  stragglers  left  behind,  seeing  me  run,  screamed ; 
then  through  the  bushes  in  front  of  me  suddenly  poked  the 
heads  of  mop-haired  mothers  and  fierce  dark  men.  I  had 
come  across  a  native  village  ! 

At  first  I  felt  a  bit  frightened ;  but  as  soon  as  those  wild- 
blooded  parents  saw  my  white  face  and  youthful  look  they 
smiled,  for  their  instincts  are  swift  and  true.  I  stepped  into 
the  village,  and  soon  we  were  all  good  comrades.  It  was 
there  that  I  met  a  missionary  who  lived  not  far  off,  and  was 
adviser  and  preacher  to  the  native  village.  He  was  a  good 
man  at  heart,  but  extremely  bigoted,  and  when  I  asked  him 
about  Father  Anster  he  yawned  and  evaded  my  questions, 
told  me  that  he  was  considered  a  mild  kind  of  lunatic.  I 
did  not  argue  the  point,  but  nevertheless  I  saw  the  way  the 
wind  blew  and  thought  a  good  deal.  I  realised  there  was  no 
love  lost  between  my  old  host  and  the  new  missionaries,  who 
did  not  care  for  hermits  who  toiled  and  lived  completely  by 
themselves. 

The  hot  season  was  at  its  height,  and  not  till  the  sun  had 
set  and  the  sea  winds  gently  blew  over  the  isle  did  I  feel 
comfortable.  One  is  forcibly  reminded  when  travelling  in 
the  South  Sea  Isles  that  the  natives  in  complete  undress  are 
utilising  their  own  skins  to  the  best  advantage  :  often  I 
envied  them  their  scanty  sulu  (loin-cloth),  as  my  white  duck 
trousers  and  shirt  flopped  and  steamed  with  perspiration  as 
I  sweated  onwards.  I  stayed  for  several  hours  at  the  village 
I  had  stumbled  across.  Round  the  native  huts  the  evening 
fires  blazed  as  squatting  by  stone  bowls  the  families  ate 
their  supper ;  dipping  their  fingers  into  the  steaming  mixture, 
they  pushed  worm-like  stuff  into  their  dark  mouths.  The 
toothless  old  chiefs  and  mothers  were  waited  on  by  the 
children,  who  often  sulkily  helped  them,  hastily  pushing 
what  looked  like  long  white  worms,  that  hung  from  the 
aged  mouths,  in  between  the  mumbling  lips. 

284 


A  FIJIAN  VETERAN 

Close  by,  in  one  of  the  conical,  thatched  dens,  loudly 
wailed  a  windy  harmonium,  played  by  a  young  aspirant  for 
musical  fame.  The  selling  of  harmoniums  in  the  South  Seas 
in  those  days  was  a  paying  business :  a  native  would  work 
for  three  years  on  a  plantation,  without  wages,  to  possess  one 
of  those  instruments  of  torture,  and  a  family  that  possessed 
one  obtained  a  social  distinction  equal  to  the  Order  of  the 
Bath  in  Great  Britain.  It  was  the  celebrated  High  Chief 
Volka  who  owned  this  particular  terrible  thing. 

While  the  huddled  natives  chattered  and  gorged  over  their 
calabashes  of  hot  mystery  this  chief  led  me  round  and  proudly 
showed  me  the  sights.  Sunset  had  died,  and  the  stars  were 
beginning  to  peep  through  the  dusky  velvet  blue  skies 
that  could  be  seen  in  many  patches  above  the  scattered 
waveless  palms  and  banyan-trees.  Chief  Volka  was  a  true 
survival  of  the  barbaric  age,  six  feet  in  height,  scarred  and 
tattooed  from  his  brow  to  his  knees.  He  had  lost  one  eye  in 
battle,  and  the  other,  through  double  use,  bulged  considerably. 
Leading  me  into  his  ancestral  halls — three  thatched  rooms — 
he  stood  beside  me,  as  his  mop-head  touched  the  low  roof, 
and  pointed  to  a  ponderous  war-club  that  hung  on  the 
wooden  wall.  Round  it  was  a  grim  collection  of  spear- 
headed weapons.  Standing  by  my  side,  with  his  shoulders 
majestically  lifted  and  his  chest  blown  out,  he  proudly  told 
me  of  the  wounds  that  implement  had  inflicted,  and  of  the 
many  lives  it  had,  with  sudden  force,  sent  hastily  to  heathen- 
land.  His  one  eye  flashed  with  revived  memories,  and  then 
that  old  veteran  of  some  past  Fijian  Waterloo  told  me  how 
his  civilised  tribe  had  exterminated  the  uncivilised  foe  in  a 
mighty  battle,  and  of  the  benefit  the  great  victory  had  con- 
ferred upon  humanity.  For  did  not  the  victory  overthrow 
tribal  men  who  ate  their  wounded  on  holy  days  ? — thus 
angering  the  gods  by  not  keeping  them  in  pickle  till  the 
Fijian  Lent  had  passed  ! 

He  stood  there,  drawn  up  to  his  full  height,  his  shrivelled 
but  erstwhile  muscular  arm  outstretched,  as  he  told  me 
of  the  overthrow  of  tribes  on  neighbouring  isles  who  had 
aspired  to  dominate  the  whole  Fijian  Group  by  militarism. 
With  forgivable  pride  he  took  down  the  huge  club  that  had 

285 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

brought  the  ambitious  leader  of  the  hated  hordes  to  the 
earth  with  a  smashed  skull.  It  was  a  mighty  weapon,  and 
the  bare-skinned  youth  beside  him  gazed  upon  it  with  awe- 
struck eyes  as  I  said :  "  And  what  happened  after  that 
victory  ?  "  "  We  had  ten  years  of  great  peace,  many  feasts 
and  many  wives,  and  our  gods  were  pleased  till  came  your 
race  and  overthrew  them."  And  then  he  continued  in  this 
wise:  "Alas,  our  great  civilisation  has  passed  away ;  revered 
customs,  creeds  and  mighty  histories  of  my  race  are  forgotten 
with  the  old  winds.  Ah,  your  white  race  tramples  on  our  old 
dynasty  of  supreme  goodness  !  " 

I  gazed  silently  as  he  spoke  and  wondered  much,  for  I 
knew  that  the  foundation  of  civilisation,  and  all  that  is  called 
best,  is  built  on  man's  attempt  to  ward  off  impending  dis- 
aster. As  I  thought  I  wondered  how  much  wisdom  lay  in  his 
natural  vanity,  for  the  warriors  of  old  had  died  out  and  the 
new  race  looked  cute,  flabby,  and  quite  devoid  of  energy. 
Outside  old  men  and  youths  smacked  their  lips  and  grunted 
as  they  nibbled  coco-nuts  and  chewed  tobacco ;  the  grandees 
drank  new  rum,  and  the  old  women  and  maids  of  fashion 
whispered  scandal  and  scratched  their  mop-heads  delicately 
with  one  outstretched  finger. 

Brilliantly  the  moon  shone  through  the  forest  trees  as  I 
strolled  from  scene  to  scene  of  that  South  Sea  village.  By 
tiny  camp  fires  sat  the  elder  members  of  the  various  house- 
holds ;  the  little  children  were  fast  asleep  by  them  on  small 
mats.  Some  gazed  into  the  fire  ash,  spat  and  chewed,  others 
chatted,  and  on  the  hill-side  sat  several  groups  singing  softly 
so  as  not  to  awaken  the  sleepers.  They  were  strange,  weird 
melodies  that  I  listened  to;  and  as  I  stood  alone  in  the 
shadows  I  knew  that  I  heard  in  those  primeval  wails  of  joy 
and  t sorrow  the  youthful  voice  of  music  and  poetry  as  it  was 
ere  it  attained  the  artificial  development  expressed  in  Europe, 
tricked  out  and  dressed  in  all  the  artistries  to  suit  applauding 
conventionality.  Old  women  wailed  songs  that  told  of  dead 
children,  dead  husbands  or  lovers,  and  all  the  many  griefs 
that  flesh  is  heir  to.  I  think  the  sad  old  missionary  with 
whom  I  had  stayed  had  awakened  in  me  a  note  of  deeper 
thought  than  was  usual  in  my  reflection.  On  my  memory  are 

286 


BUDDING  CIVILISATION 

still  vividly  engraved  the  scenes  of  that  night ;  the  moonlight 
over  the  trees,  the  stars  and  the  squatting  groups  of  the 
village  natives  are  all  still  mine,  and  the  atmosphere  is  as 
clear  as,  yet  somewhat  sadder  than,  of  yore,  like  a  melody 
heard  again,  after  many  years,  in  another  country.  I 
seemed  to  know  that  the  wild  life  and  scenery  round  me  was 
similar  to  the  embryo  life  of  modern  civilisation ;  and  there 
was  something  real  and  innocent  in  that  Fijian  Arabian 
night  that  made  the  modern  world  of  life  look  intensely 
vapid.  I  still  see  the  women  of  Fijian  fashion,  with  their 
legs  outstretched  before  the  dying  fires,  each  attired  in  some 
sailor's  cast-off  undershirt  or  a  portion  of  a  white  woman's 
garment.  Some  strutted  under  the  palms  and  gazed  almost 
disdainfully  upon  maidens  and  mothers  who  only  wore  the 
native  grass-weaved  sulu.  I  knew  that  I  gazed  upon  the 
first  leaders  of  Fijian  fashionable  society,  society  that  has 
reached  the  zenith  of  vanity  in  Europe.  I  saw  budding 
knighthoods  fanning  flies  and  mosquitoes  from  the  high 
chief's  oily  body.  His  eyelids  blinked  approval  as  the 
aspirants  to  royal  favour  lifted  his  fat  feet,  which  rested 
on  a  little  mat,  and  blew  their  cooling  breath  on  them. 

Poor  relations  carried  refuse  in  large  stone  bowls  to  the 
village  cesspool.  Pet  mongrel  dogs  snapped  at  the  hovering 
ring  of  flies  and  sniffed  at  the  stench  as  they  passed  it,  whilst 
the  rich  relations  lolled  under  the  sunlit  tropic  palms.  At 
the  far  end  of  the  village,  on  a  stump,  stood  the  fanatic, 
shouting  in  Fijian,  "  Taho-ai-Oa,"  and  shrieking  and 
stamping  to  entice  the  straggling  villagers  to  come  to  his 
special  mission  class.  Swarthy  Solomon  Islanders  and 
Indians  with  brilliant  dark  eyes  gazed  at  the  maids. 
Under  the  palms  sat  the  full-lipped  youth,  Lota-Mio; 
oblivious  of  all  around  him,  he  toiled  on  with  his  rusty  nail, 
carving  on  a  sea-shell  the  outlines  of  a  maiden's  face ;  the 
work  revealed  wonderful  talent.  Maidens  and  youths 
embraced  and  gazed  with  shining  eyes  at  each  other  as  the 
shaggy -headed  Fijian  poet  pointed  to  the  evening  star 
imaged  in  the  still  lagoon,  for  it  shone  in  the  fairyland  of  still 
waters.  They  peered  over  the  water's  brink  and  wondered  to 
see  their  dark  faces  under  the  imaged  trees  that  were  upside 

287 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

down ;  then  the  branches  stirred  as  the  mirrored  winds 
blew  in  the  water  and  their  imaged  faces  broke  up  and 
disappeared ! 

I  got  the  old  chief  to  see  me  safely  on  the  road  home ;  for 
though  I  trusted  the  Fijians,  I  did  not  like  the  look  of  the 
imported  Indians,  who  crept  about  the  village  selling  sham 
jewellery  and  tempting  the  maids  with  trifles  and  trinkets. 
They  were  stealthy-looking  men,  dark  and  masterful  in 
appearance.  Their  creeds  were  slowly  overthrowing 
Christianity,  for  the  natives  were  weak,  and  Mohammedan- 
ism was  more  in  harmony  with  their  secret  cravings  and 
requirements.  Also  the  colour  of  the  turbaned  teachers 
matched  their  own  skins.  White  men  can  hardly  blame  the 
childish  Fijians  for  embracing  Mohammedanism  as  readily 
as  they  turned  to  Christianity,  for  in  London  town  the 
Islamic  creed  is  being  preached  and  is  finding  numerous 
adherents,  gathered  from  the  so-called  high-class  Christians, 
who  gain  greater  comfort  from  Mahomet  than  from  the  sorrow 
of  Calvary. 


288 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Back  at  the  Charity  Organization — Mabau — A  Fugitive  Bank 
Manager  arrives — How  the  Organization  secured  Funds — 
English  Refugees — Departure — Native  Burial — A  New  Sect — 
With  Bones  again — Another  Fugitive  and  his  Experiences — 
Galloway 's  Tall  Hat— The  Death  of  Mabau— The  Haunted  Wreck 

I  RETURNED  once  more  to  the  Organization  rooms,  so 
tired  that  I  fell  asleep  without  delay,  and  not  until  next 
morning  was  I  introduced  to  several  members  whom  I 
had  not  seen  before.  My  toothless  friend  was  mumbling 
away  to  an  old  "  shellback,"  who  in  turn  was  striving  to 
outdo  his  comrade's  experiences  on  land  and  sea.  "  Glad 
to  see  yer,"  said  the  old  salt,  as  Bones  introduced  me.  I 
returned  the  compliment  and  shook  his  extended  hand 
warmly.  He  was  the  life  of  the  place,  and  not  pleasant  life 
either,  for  he  had  an  old  cornet,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
would  lift  his  face  to  the  low  roof  and  blow  some  wretched 
tune  on  it  over  and  over  again.  One  night  there  was  a 
fight,  for  as  he  played  and  sang  and  rolled  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling  a  boot  struck  him  behind  the  ear  ;  one  of  the  members 
had  lost  his  temper  and  thrown  it.  The  incident  caused  a 
fearful  hubbub,  the  cornet  got  smashed  to  bits  and  one  or 
two  of  the  bunks  broken  down.  Bones  came  in,  pointed  a 
revolver  at  the  fighters  and  threatened  to  shoot,  and  I  believe 
he  would  have  done  so  if  they  had  not  quieted  down.  They 
were  a  rough  crew,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  away  from 
the  place  at  the  first  opportunity.  Many  strange  things  I 
heard,  some  of  which  I  will  tell  you. 

Next  day  as  I  sat  alone  reflecting  in  the  Organization's 
gloomy  room  I  heard  Mabau  just  outside  wailing  a  native 
chant  of  love-sickness.  She  had  peeled  the  "spuds"  and 
finished  the  domestic  duties,  for  which  Bones  gave  her 
ample  wages. 

"What  did  the  kind  white  missionary  say,  Mabau  ?  "  I 

T  289 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

whispered  softly  to  her,  as  Bones  and  two  scrubby-faced 
villains  puffed  their  pipes  and  shuffled  a  pack  of  cards  on 
the  bench. 

Looking  up  with  affectionate  eyes  that  gazed  at  me 
steadily  for  a  little  time  and  then  dropped  as  she  sighed,  she 
answered  :  "He  say  pray  to  white  God ;  go  to  your  people, 
and  if  your  Vituo  no  love  you  quickly  find  him  who 
will  love  you."  And  as  she  said  this  to  me  she  gazed 
into  my  eyes  in  an  appealing  way  that  made  me  sorry  for 
her. 

44  Come  this  way,  Mabau,"  I  said,  and  she  followed  me  like 
a  little  child,  till  out  of  earshot  she  sat  under  the  coco-palms 
behind  the  Organization  hut.  I  took  her  there  because  I 
wanted  to  be  alone  with  her  to  advise  her  for  her  own  sake. 
I  liked  Mabau  exceedingly,  for  I  saw  in  her  something  deeper 
than  I  had  noticed  in  most  native  girls.  Sitting  by  me  in  the 
jungle  fern,  with  her  chin  on  her  knees,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to 
me  and  sang  a  weird  love  chant.  "  Wail  O — Wa — O,  Mio  " 
it  sounded,  as  she  sang  tenderly  her  beseeching  plaint. 

44  Why  do  you  sing,  Mabau  ?  "  I  asked.  44  Is  it  the  wicked 
Vituo  that  makes  you  so  sad  ?  " 

>4  Vituo  I  hate,"  she  answered  fiercely.  44 1  will  kill  him, 
and  the  white  man  will  be  my  friend."  But  I  shook  my 
head  and  told  her  not  to  kill  Vituo,  but  go  to  her  own  people, 
and  as  I  spoke  I  pointed  to  the  forest.  Obediently  as  a  child 
she  rose,  and  before  moving  away  gave  me  a  shell  comb  from 
her  hair.  I  accepted  it  and  smiled  kindly  at  her,  for  I  felt 
sorry  for  the  brown,  forlorn  girl.  Then  with  pattering  bare 
feet  she  went  down  the  forest  track,  wailing.  I  went  back 
to  the  Organization  room  and  practised  my  violin,  as  I  always 
did  for  several  hours  every  day,  both  on  land  and  sea. 

I  think  it  was  that  same  night  that  a  portly  gentleman 
looking  like  a  bank  manager  came  down  the  river  from  Suva 
and  hastily  entered  the  door,  talking  hurriedly  to  Mr  Bones. 
Opening  a  little  bag  he  gave  him  a  bundle  of  what  appeared 
to  be  banknotes,  and  so  placed  himself  under  the  protection 
of  the  Organization  flag.  He  was  fashionably  dressed  in  a  tall 
hat  and  frock-coat,  the  tail  of  which  had  a  singed  hole  in  it, 
as  though  he  had  been  shot  at  at  close  quarters.  Rubbing 

290 


A  PREOCCUPIED  VISITOR 

his  hands  genially,  as  though  with  great  relief,  he  looked 
round  the  secluded  room  and  then  asked  me  if  I  were  English, 
and  inquired  if  many  of  my  countrymen  resided  in  those 
parts.  My  reply  allayed  his  anxiety  on  that  point.  He  had 
a  big,  round,  clean-shaven,  red  face ;  grey  locks  protruded 
from  beneath  the  rim  of  his  tall  hat,  and  fitted  his  brow  and 
neck  so  nicely  that  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he  wore  a  wig. 
His  expression  was  like  his  hair,  false  ;  his  was  a  face  that 
could  look  jolly  and  lascivious,  or  sedate,  at  will,  or  even 
appear  deeply  thoughtful  and  religious  should  occasion 
require.  Intensely  preoccupied,  he  sat  looking  at  newspaper 
cuttings,  and  with  a  vacant  stare  said  "  Em — em,"  as  I 
spoke  to  him.  The  natives  and  the  scenery  round  had  no 
interest  for  him ;  some  life-and-death  business  had  hastened 
him  our  way.  He  stopped  only  two  nights  and  then  left  by 
the  next  'Frisco  steamer,  bound  for  some  port  outside  the 
reach  of  the  extradition  treaty.  I  was  glad  to  see  him  go. 
Every  time  anyone  opened  the  door  he  started  so  that  it  got 
on  my  nerves.  Once  when  Bones  suddenly  opened  the  door 
with  a  crash,  on  purpose,  I  believe,  he  gave  a  leap  and  lifted 
the  lid  of  the  emergency  barrel,  upsetting  the  mugs  of  rum 
and  causing  the  whole  Organization  to  swear  as  one  man.  As 
he  jumped  in  I  quickly  put  the  lid  on  before  he  could  lower 
his  shoulders  and  head,  and  crash  went  his  tall  hat,  while  I 
heard  a  muffled  oath  beneath  the  lid.  The  emergency  barrel 
was  a  huge  ship's  beef-barrel,  which  stood  behind  the  door, 
and  in  it  new  members  of  the  Organization  hid  when  the 
overseas  police  arrived.  A  cave  beneath  the  floor  was  a 
secret  known  to  old  members  only. 

It  was  a  mystery  to  me  how  these  preoccupied  fugitives 
from  justice  got  to  know  of  Bones's  establishment.  My 
mystification  was  dispelled  by  one  of  the  old  officials,  who 
let  me  into  the  secret,  telling  me  more  than  he  should  have 
done,  as  he  swallowed  rum  and  became  loquacious.  It 
appeared  that  Bones  boarded  the  boats  as  they  arrived  at 
Suva,  Vanu  Levu  or  Lakemba,  interviewed  passengers  and 
spotted  likely  customers.  With  years  of  research  and 
experience  he  had  developed  a  bloodhound's  instinct  for 
twigging  uneasy  fugitives,  and  by  devious  artifices  managed 

291 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

to  give  them  the  hint  and  let  them  know  that  he  was  the  man 
who  understood  difficult  positions,  and  was  willing  to  be  a 
faithful  friend  to  all  those  who  yearned  to  remain  unknown. 

I  also  learnt  that  Bones  was  not  above  the  ruse  of  getting 
a  confederate  on  board  the  boat,  who  would  pose  as  a 
detective  and  suddenly  turn  round  and  scrutinise  any 
suspicious  passenger,  and  so  deliberately  frighten  him  into 
hurriedly  leaving  the  ship.  By  a  prearranged  signal,  when 
the  native  canoes  brought  the  flying  fugitive  ashore,  the 
Organization  officials  arrested  him !  Those  who  confessed 
offhand  were  given  the  straight  hint  that  their  captors  were 
not  beyond  accepting  a  bribe  and  letting  the  prisoner  escape. 
If  they  had  no  money  Bones  behaved  well  to  them,  put  them 
up  for  a  time,  then  shipped  them  off  at  the  first  chance. 

Those  who  had  managed  to  bring  wealth  with  them  gave 
Bones  a  liberal  bribe,  and  you  can  imagine  it  was  no  hard  job 
to  get  it  out  of  them.  Men  from  all  parts  of  the  world  sought 
the  South  Seas  as  a  hiding-place  ;  some  came  to  save  their 
necks,  many  to  escape  penal  servitude.  The  Charity 
Organization  of  the  South  Seas  was  not  far  behind  its  name- 
sakes in  Europe.  It  was  a  paying  concern,  and  though  the 
method  on  which  it  was  conducted  was  risky  and  strange,  it 
was  run  on  lines  of  truth  and  charity  ;  stolen  money  only 
was  accepted,  the  guilty  were  punished  by  being  robbed, 
and  help  was  given  to  the  fallen,  who  were  taken  in,  fed, 
and  finally  guided  on  the  road  to  seclusion  and  security. 
Assuredly  it  did  not  reverse  its  creed,  as  the  organizations  of 
Western  seas  do,  where  bent  old  men  on  tottering  feet  tap  at 
the  door  of  charity  and,  apologising  for  being  old,  start  to 
earn  the  crust  of  charity  by  lifting  the  pick-axe  and  breaking 
stones — stones  as  hard  as  the  hearts  of  the  British  officials 
who  waddle  with  fatness  and  the  wealth  screwed  out  of 
insane  charity-givers. 

I  could  tell  many  distressing  details  of  that  South  Sea 
hospitality ;  fiction  pales  into  insignificance  beside  the 
realities,  the  tragic  dramas  of  life  that  came  to  that  old 
shanty.  I  could  tell  you  how  men  fell  through  the  lure  of 
gold,  and  the  temptation  to  appear  wealthy  and  respectable, 
in  the  cities  of  a  civilisation  that  so  often  defeats  its  own 

292 


OLD  WORLD  AND  NEW 

purpose ;  for  how  often  men  fall  in  their  ambition  to  gain 
the  good  opinion  of  those  who  only  appear  better  than 
themselves. 

The  unpractical  passion  of  love  also  brought  much  wealth 
to  the  South  Sea  Organization's  exchequer.  I  remember 
one  middle-aged  gentleman  whose  manner  brought  to  that 
degraded  forest  homestead  a  flavour  of  English  society. 
With  him,  in  the  tastefully  laid-out  little  room,  wept  a  girl, 
obviously  brought  up  in  English  respectability.  She  was  a 
pretty,  blue-eyed  girl,  but  her  face  had  aged  with  grief  and 
remorse  and  the  thought  of  motherhood.  Mabau  was  her 
ever- tender  maid  and  companion.  The  bond  of  sympathy 
that  linked  the  brown  and  the  white  woman  together  expressed 
something  that  had  an  intense  note  of  poetry  in  it.  Mabau's 
wild  intuition  read  the  girl's  sorrow  and  remorse.  The  two 
women,  so  far  removed  from  each  other  by  blood  and  educa- 
tion, through  mutual  grief  and  instinct  became  equal. 
Softly  Mabau  stroked  her  white  sister's  face,  and  she  in  turn 
caressed  the  brown  girl,  who  also  was  fast  approaching 
motherhood. 

I  asked  no  questions  of  her  male  companion  as  he  and  I 
together  strolled  across  the  landscape.  I  led  him  to  the 
native  villages,  and  did  my  best  to  interest  him  and  take  him 
out  of  himself  during  the  three  days  that  he  stayed  with 
Bones.  We  conceived  a  mutual  liking  for  each  other,  and 
he  took  me  sufficiently  into  his  confidence  to  let  me  know 
that  they  were  on  the  way  to  South  America. 

I  saw  them  both  off  by  the  s.s. from  Suva.     Mabau 

carried  the  white  girl's  things  to  the  boat.  As  they  stood  on 
the  ship's  deck  they  waved  their  hands  to  us,  and  we  stood 
watching  the  frail  girl,  clinging  to  the  man's  arm,  as  the 
vessel  moved  away  and  the  tropical  sunset  flooded  the  seas. 
We  stared  till  the  ship  was  a  speck  on  the  waste  of  waters. 
So  disappeared  those  outcasts  on  the  horizon,  together  with 
their  passion  and  its  fruits,  bound  for  another  land,  fading 
from  our  sight  for  ever.  Mabau  cried  bitterly.  I  felt  very 
sad  also  as  we  went  down  the  river,  and  the  hut  looked  more 
lonely  than  ever  to  me  after  they  left. 

I  only  stayed  with  Bones  as  a  visitor,  and  several  times 

293 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

went  off  to  Lakemba  and  the  various  isles  of  the  group, 
visiting  Thombo  and  the  Eastern  Isles,  also  Yasawa,  Kandavu 
and  the  native  villages  inland  from  Vana  Levu,  in  the  Bua 
district.  Some  of  the  natives  owned  profitable  plantations, 
planted  chiefly  with  coco-palms  for  the  produce  of  copra  and 
food  for  domestic  use. 

I  often  roamed  those  barbaric  lands  quite  alone,  and  used 
to  stand  and  reflect  as  I  gazed  through  the  wooded  land- 
scape ;  the  solitude  seemed  so  peaceful,  but  my  dreams 
would  conjure  up  pictures  of  the  hot-footed,  bloodthirsty 
tribes  on  the  warpath  long  ago.  Swarthy  bodies  and  mop- 
heads  moving  through  those  glooms  to  charge  the  ambushed 
rival  tribe,  finally  bringing  their  victims  to  the  ovens  that 
fizzled  the  "  long  pig." 

Where  now  the  cattle  roam  at  leisure,  nibbling  the  covatu 
grass  and  milk-fern  of  the  cleared  pastures,  once  towered 
thickly  wooded  forest  slopes  of  tropic  fern  and  coco-palms. 
Patches  of  those  forests  still  remain.  In  those  old  glooms 
I  roamed  and  spent  many  happy  and  exciting  times,  for 
among  them  still  stood  native  villages  of  semi-savage 
peoples ;  many  of  them  clung  to  old  heathen  beliefs  and 
sneered  as  they  passed  the  den  wherein  moaned  the  wailing 
harmonium.  Fierce  fights  often  raged  among  the  popula- 
tion, for  they  were  a  mixed  party,  many  of  them  being 
emigrant  islanders  from  the  Gilbert,  Ellice  and  Samoan 
Groups. 

I  used  to  wander  about  those  old  native  villages,  undecided 
whether  to  go  to  Australia  or  to  get  a  berth  on  one  of  the 
trading-boats  bound  for  Honolulu,  and  so  make  my  way 
to  San  Francisco.  The  weather  was  very  hot,  the  ther- 
mometer reaching  95°.  As  I  sat  in  the  shade  beneath  the 
trees,  above  my  head  chuckled  peculiar,  migratory  birds, 
pruning  their  wings  and  whistling  to  the  infinite  blue  above 
their  topmost  bough,  which  swayed  gently  to  the  welcome 
sea  breeze  that  blew  inland.  It  was  there  that  I  saw  a 
native  funeral ;  a  Fijian  girl  had  died.  I  watched  the 
thatched  den's  door  open,  as  swarthy  men,  with  bowed, 
lamenting  heads,  bore  on  their  shoulders  the  square-shaped 
coffin.  It  was  sunset  and  the  burying-hour.  The  whole 

294 


A  FASHIONABLE  FUNERAL 

village  started  wailing,  beating  their  breasts  and  naked 
thighs  as  they  moved  on  in  the  grotesque  but  sad  pro- 
cession. One  old  woman,  the  great-grandmother,  I  think, 
led  the  way  to  the  native  cemetery.  It  was  a  mournful  sight, 
and  a  novel  one  for  Western  eyes,  for  their  grief  seemed 
real !  By  a  lonely  forest  track  the  procession  stopped,  and 
there,  in  the  shade  of  a  mighty  group  of  banyan-trees,  was 
the  grave.  Loudly  the  mourners  started  to  wail,  and  the  old 
woman  and  the  girls  fell  flat  on  their  faces  and  grovelled 
on  the  forest  turf,  wailing  a  Fijian  lament,  while  the  male 
mourners  drank  kava  from  little  pots  to  keep  their  spirits  up. 
To  my  astonishment  the  old  woman  was  lowered  into  the 
grave  first.  She  stretched  her  body  out,  feigning  death  so 
well  that  her  naked  limbs  and  corpulent,  brown  frame  looked 
stiff  with  rigor  mortis.  Four  powerful  chiefs,  two  at  her 
head  and  two  at  the  middle,  slowly  lowered  her  into  the 
tomb. 

Then  came  forward  one  who  I  presumed  was  the  high 
priest  and,  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  he  lifted  his 
hands  towards  the  skies  and  called  on  the  gods  to  take  the 
living  spirit  of  the  old  woman  into  the  land  of  death  to  look 
after  the  soul  of  the  dead  girl.  As  the  high  priest  yawned 
and  finished  his  speech  he  walked  away,  and  maidens  cast 
flowers  on  to  the  living  body  below.  For  a  moment  I 
thought  that  the  old  woman  was  to  be  buried  alive,  but  to  my 
relief  I  saw  her  dark,  skinny  fingers  hastily  emerge  and  cling 
to  the  grave's  brink,  as  up  came  her  head  and  she  leapt  out 
on  all-fours. 

Then  the  lid  of  the  coffin,  wherein  lay  the  dead  girl,  was 
lifted,  and  the  mourners  each  in  turn  gazed  upon  the  face 
and  wailed.  I  did  not  look,  for  the  sight  depressed  me,  and 
I  hurried  away.  This  method  of  burial,  and  the  ceremony 
which  I  have  described,  was  an  old  custom  modified,  a 
method  employed  by  a  new  sect,  a  creed  which  was  based 
half  on  heathenism  and  half  on  Christianity,  similar  to  the 
many  crank  offspring  creeds  of  Europe  to-day. 

After  staying  in  Suva  for  two  or  three  days,  idling  and 
boarding  the  few  trading  schooners  in  the  harbour,  I  went 
back  to  the  Den  of  Mystery  presided  over  by  Mr  Bones.  As 

295 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

I  entered  the  Organization  door  I  saw,  through  the  wreaths 
of  tobacco  smoke,  the  villainous,  unshaved  profiles  of  the  gay 
officials,  as  bending  over  the  long  bench  they  shuffled  cards, 
swore  and  drank  rum.  As  they  welcomed  me  their  fierce, 
suspicious,  wrinkled  brows  smoothed  out  again.  I  had  left 
my  violin  with  them  and,  though  I  had  been  absent  several 
days,  it  stood  on  the  shelf  over  their  heads  as  I  had  left  it. 
They  called  on  me  for  a  solo  as  I  sat  down  and  smoked,  but 
when  I  responded  to  their  wish  a  terrible  discord  began,  for 
the  player  of  the  smashed  cornet  joined  in  and  put  my  ear 
out ;  his  time  and  tune  faculties  were  nil.  When  I  stopped 
he  still  blew  on,  puffing  out  tunelessness.  As  the  night 
advanced  yarns  began,  and  I  heard  experiences  of  those 
rough  men,  and  truly  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction.  Much 
that  I  heard  is  unprintable,  not  so  much  because  of  its  sub- 
ject and  expressive  thought  as  from  the  fact  that  in  Bones's 
hospitable  establishment  I  received  trust  that  once  betrayed 
would  bring  dire  disaster  on  fugitives  who  are  still  hiding,  or 
have  relatives  of  high  standing  in  England  and  elsewhere. 

Among  others  there  was  one  weird-faced  fellow  there  at 
that  time.  He  looked  thin  and  ill,  but  had  been  handsome 
in  his  day,  and  often  through  his  rough  accent  came  a 
different  utterance,  that  of  an  educated  man.  Over  his  bunk 
were  the  photographs  of  a  girl  and  of  two  old  people.  Some- 
thing in  his  life  had  played  havoc  with  him,  for  secret  grief 
had  prematurely  wrinkled  his  brow  and  face.  His  eyes  were 
clear,  blue  and  earnest-looking.  All  the  men  took  to  him, 
for  he  was  willing  enough,  and  when  they  chaffed  him  he 
smiled  good-naturedly  and  revealed  the  expression  that  had 
lit  his  face  up  as  a  boy. 

Bones  had  picked  him  up  adrift  at  sea  whilst  he  was  on  a 
trip  to  Tonga  in  a  schooner.  The  man  had  stowed  away  on 
a  boat  at  Sydney  that  was  bound  for  South  America.  The 
detectives  had  got  wind  of  his  being  aboard  ;  he  had  hidden 
himself  between  decks  among  the  massed  cargo,  bales  of 
wool.  After  the  second  day  at  sea  the  detectives,  who  were 
aboard,  came  down  into  the  hold  to  see  if  they  could  discover 
his  whereabouts.  Without  water,  and  with  only  a  few  biscuits 
to  nibble  at  in  his  huddled  confinement,  he  suffered  agonies, 

296 


THE  STOWAWAY 

It  was  almost  stifling  up  on  deck  under  the  tropical  sun,  but 
down  deep  in  the  ship's  hold  he  was  almost  suffocated,  and 
the  droves  of  hungry  ship  rats  smelt  his  sweating  body  and 
viciously  attacked  him  in  the  inky  darkness. 

"  Often  I  had  half  a  mind  to  give  myself  up,"  said  he, 
"  for  the  cursed  vermin  bit  at  my  legs  as  I  beat  with  my 
hands  to  keep  them  from  eating  at  my  face.  I  dared  not 
sleep  ;  indeed,  as  I  dozed  off  once  or  twice  I  felt  them  push- 
ing along  under  the  legs  of  my  trousers,  and  their  rough 
tongues,  like  tiny  saws,  licked  at  the  beads  of  cold  sweat 
that  broke  out  all  over  me."  As  he  continued,  the  game  of 
cards  along  the  bench  ceased ;  all  hands  became  still  with 
interest.  Mabau,  who  crouched  near  my  feet,  gave  a 
deepening  blush  as  I  gazed  at  her  squatting  on  the  floor 
beside  me.  She  was  gazing  at  Vituo's  photograph,  which  he 
had  had  taken  in  Suva. 

Proceeding  with  his  story,  as  we  puffed  our  pipes  silently 
he  continued  :  "  Suddenly  I  heard  a  creaking  noise  forward ; 
the  bulk-head  doors  were  opening  !  Peeping  between  the 
bales  of  cargo,  I  saw  the  flash  of  a  bull's-eye  lantern  ;  they 
were  crawling  over  the  cargo  searching  for  me  !  The  human 
bloodhounds  nearly  trod  on  my  body  as  they  flashed  their 
lanterns  over  the  gloom  and  crept  past  me  in  the  dark.  In  a 
second  I  saw  my  chance.  I  noiselessly  worked  my  body  back- 
wards, as  they  were  searching  the  cargo  right  ahead.  Half 
dead  I  got  through  the  bulkhead  door  and  stood  on  deck. 

"  It  was  night ;  the  stars  lit  the  skies  overhead  and  the 
funnel  belched  out  reddened  smoke  that  rolled  astern.  She 
was  cutting  across  the  Pacific  at  fourteen  knots.  How  I 
drank  in  the  fresh  air  as  I  crept  up  by  the  stokehold  grating. 
Hiding  myself  by  the  funnel,  I  gazed  up ;  there  was  the  bridge, 
and  to  and  fro  walked  the  captain  and  chief  mate.  Pre- 
sently I  heard  voices  on  deck ;  they  were  back  from  their 
search.  "  He's  not  down  there,"  one  of  them  shouted. 
The  skipper  leaned  over  the  bridge  rails.  "  You  are  on  the 
wrong  tack,  I  guess,"  he  shouted  back.  "  I  wish  they  were," 
thought  I,  and  at  that  moment  I  heard  their  footsteps 
coming  up  the  gangway  towards  me. 

"  I  held  my  breath ;  they  flashed  their  lanterns  about ;  one 

297 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

of  them  nearly  brushed  against  me  as  I  watched.  A  pain 
shot  through  my  head  ;  my  God,  I  was  done  for  !  I  clapped 
my  hand  to  my  mouth  to  save  myself  and  muffle  the  sound. 
With  a  smothering  throb  it  came  ;  I  gave  forth  a  tremendous 
sneeze  !  It  betrayed  me.  In  an  instant  I  seized  the  wooden 
grating  by  the  bridge  gangway  and  leapt  to  the  lower  deck. 
I  heard  the  crashing  and  throbbing  of  the  engines,  as  for  a 
moment  I  stood  by  the  galley  port-hole  and  resolved  on  the 
next  step.  Gripping  the  grating  tightly,  I  clambered  on  to 
the  bulwark  and  dived  into  the  Pacific  !  I  felt  the  thunder 
and  swirl  of  the  screw  as  the  revolving  blades  just  missed 
me,  and  I  was  sucked  down  by  the  churning  waters.  Still 
clutching  the  grating  I  came  up  to  the  surface  and,  resting 
my  arms  on  it,  gazed  at  the  ship.  She  was  still  thundering 
on,  fading  under  the  stars  ;  I  saw  her  go,  racing  away. 
Evidently  they  had  not  dreamed  that  I  had  jumped  over- 
board. 

"  The  cool  waters  refreshed  me  considerably.  For  a  long 
while  I  could  see  the  mast-head  light  of  the  ship,  and  then  I 
was  alone  at  sea.  Daybreak  crept  over  the  world  of  waters 
and  like  a  flood  of  fire  the  sunrise  burst  up  through  the  sky ; 
like  a  speck  I  bobbed  about.  Flocks  of  sea-birds  sighted  me 
and  hovered  overhead,  then  came  down,  their  legs  hanging 
loosely,  as  they  tried  to  peck  my  eyes  out !  I  beat  about 
with  my  hands.  As  I  got  on  to  the  grating,  seeing  that  I  was 
alive,  they  shrieked  and  wheeled  away. 

"  The  hot  sun  rose ;  I  became  delirious  with  thirst  and, 
unable  to  help  myself,  drank  sea-water.  At  sunset  I  half 
fell  asleep  as  I  lay  on  the  grating,  my  legs  in  the  water.  I 
cursed  that  sneeze  that  had  placed  me  in  such  a  plight. 
In  the  night  the  moon  rose.  I  was  raving  with  delirium ; 
somehow  that  sneeze  became  embodied  in  human  shape ; 
my  delirious  imagination  saw  it !  There  in  the  shivering 
moonlit  water  it  swam  round  me  !  Nearer  and  nearer  its 
grinning,  demon  face  came ;  it  seemed  frog-like  and  half 
human.  Dressed  in  a  small  red  plush  coat  it  hissed  at  the 
grating  and  peeped  at  me  with  blue,  human  eyes  !  I 
watched;  the  Universe  crashed  overhead.  I  waited  my 
opportunity.  It  came.  I  seized  that  sneeze  by  the  throat, 

298 


THE  EMBODIED  SNEEZE 

tripped  and  squeezed  the  life  out  of  its  vile  body,  then  flung 
it  back  into  the  moonlit  waters.  Once  again  it  turned  and 
came  swimming  back  towards  me,  climbed  up  and  grinned 
at  me  1  Once  more  I  gripped  it  and  threw  it  over  the  side. 
It  disappeared,  and  the  dark  fin  of  a  grey-nosed  shark  slowly 
rose.  Reality  crept  into  my  brain.  I  pulled  my  legs  up  on 
to  the  grating,  which  was  awash  with  my  weight.  I  waited 
for  death  and  shouted.  I  knew  that  fin  was  real  enough  and 
only  a  miracle  could  save  me ;  and  it  did,  for  my  cry  was 
heard.  A  passing  schooner  spotted  me  across  the  night, 
and  Bones  there  threw  the  rope  that  saved  me." 

"  Right  enough,"  said  Bones,  as  he  knocked  the  ash  from 
his  pipe.  Then  all  the  hands  filled  their  mugs  with  rum  and 
clinked  them  together,  and  the  contents,  with  one  swallow, 
disappeared. 

Such  were  some  of  the  various  experiences  I  heard  from 
the  lips  of  those  men.  Almost  everything  connected  with 
the  Organization  had  an  exciting  history  attached  to  it ; 
aye,  from  pretty  Mabau  to  the  tall  hat  that  hung  on  a  peg  by 
the  emergency  barrel.  I  think  I  will  tell  you  the  history  of 
that  hat  just  as  I  heard  it  from  Bones. 

It  appeared  that  in  earlier  days,  before  Bones  had 
made  the  hiding  profession  into  a  fine  art,  and  one  which 
easily  amassed  wealth,  his  means  of  running  the  show  and 
replenishing  the  food  and  rum  casks  were  not  as  kindly  and 
humane  as  the  arresting  scheme,  with  the  final  relief  of  the 
victim  on  getting  his  bribe  accepted — a  bribe  that  often 
astonished  Bones  by  its  generosity,  for  the  shabbiest  fugitives 
were  generally  the  richest  and  the  guiltiest. 

Well,  to  proceed.  That  immaculate  tall  hat  had  brought 
the  Organization  in  much  money.  When  trading-ships 
called  in  at  Suva  and  the  surrounding  isles  Bones  would  go 
aboard  and  negotiate  for  the  part  purchase  of  the  general 
cargo ;  and  he  did  well ;  for,  though  he  or  his  representative 
had  no  ready  money,  they  would  manage  to  dupe  the  skipper 
or  supercargo  by  giving  them  a  false  bill  or  an  I.O.U. 
from  some  firm  of  repute,  who  knew  nothing  whatever  of 
Bones  and  his  clever  crew.  Attired  in  a  frock-coat  and 

299 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

that  tall  hat,  they  commanded  the  necessary  trust  and 
respect. 

Galloway,  the  Yankee  who  worked  the  business  personally, 
managed  to  get  a  surprising  amount  of  credit.  Scores  of 
harmoniums,  musical-boxes  and  miscellaneous  clothes  were 
got  hold  of  through  the  Yankee's  smartness.  The  whole 
business  was  run  on  fine,  strategic  lines.  After  a  good  deal 
Galloway  would  lie  low  and  lend  the  hat  and  frock-coat  to  a 
confederate.  Soon,  however,  in  spite  of  their  care,  a  breath  of 
suspicion  blew  across  the  South  Seas.  Skippers  told  each 
other  to  look  out. 

"  You  see  that  hole  in  the  rim  of  the  hat,"  said  Bones, 
pointing  his  thumb  to  what  looked  like  a  bullet  hole ;  *  *  that 

d d  place  cost  me  a  cool  thousand  pounds."     Then  : 

"  You  see  that  'ole,  don't  you  ?  Well,  when  Galloway's  pal 
went  aboard  a  schooner  in  Lakemba  he  stands  on  deck  and 
makes  a  deal  for  five  hundred  clocks — natives  would  give 
their  souls  for  a  clock — and  a  thousand  tins  of  meat  stuff ; 
in  fact  almost  everything  that  we  wanted.  Well,  he  gives 
the  skipper  his  I.O.U.,  seemingly  made  out  and  signed  by  a 
settler  who  was  well  known  for  his  wealth  and  integrity  in 
Fiji ;  but,  as  he  stood  on  deck  and  signalled  to  the  natives 
overside  to  bring  the  boats  alongside  to  take  the  first  load  of 
stuff  away,  the  skipper,  who  had  previously  been  done,  spied 
the  same  hole  in  that  tall  hat  which  he  had  noticed  when 
Galloway  duped  him.  So  he  says  :  '  Before  you  take  the 
stuff  away  have  a  whisky  ?  '  and  then  says,  sudden-like  : 
4  You've  got  your  pal's  old  hat  on  ;  what's  become  of  him  ? 
I've  still  got  his  I.O.U.'  Galloway's  pal  at  this  looked  un- 
comfortable, and  the  skipper  kept  the  ball  rolling,  for  he 
whips  a  revolver  out  of  his  pocket,  and  as  H—  -  bolts  over 

the  side  the  old  curse  fires,  bang  I    H 's  ear  was  blown 

off.  So  ended  the  I.O.U.  trade,  and  H—  -  left  those  parts 
with  his  ear  missing.  Then  he  made  a  fortune  through  kid- 
napping native  girls  in  the  Solomon  and  Marquesan  Groups, 
and  got  on  so  well  that  he  purchased  a  schooner,  and  ten  years 
ago  called  this  way  and  invited  us  on  board.  As  we  drank  in 
the  saloon  aft  we  heard  the  general  cargo  of  naked  native  girls 
and  youths  wailing  under  the  floor  decks  as  they  called  for 

300 


A  CHANGE  FOR  THE  BETTER 

grub  !  I  took  mercy  on  half-a-dozen  girls  next  morning  as 
H—  -  got  them  on  deck  and  paraded  them  for  my  inspec- 
tion. I  bought  them  and  sold  three  to  the  sailors  of  a 
German  man-o'-war,  and  their  missionary  gave  me  a  good 
price  for  the  other  three." 

So  Bones  rambled  on,  telling  me  much  which  I  have  left 
out  as  being  unprintable  and,  worse — too  true  to  enlarge 
upon !  9  The  traffic  in  native  girls  for  immoral  purposes 
was  common  in  the  early  days,  and  still  is  to-day,  but  it 
is  carried  on  now  by  more  disguised  methods ;  indeed,  most 
of  the  crimes  that  were  rampant  in  the  old  days  are  worse 
than  ever,  for  they  are  carried  on  with  deeper  guile,  as 
missionaries,  earnest  men  enough,  leave  the  sorrow  and  sin 
of  their  own  lands  to  spread  hypocrisy  over  the  South  Seas. 
For  the  natives  are  clever,  and  with  education  simply  learn 
the  duplicity  of  the  white  race ;  loudly  they  sing  the  lotu 
hymns  as  they  grin  in  their  hearts  over  the  change  in  things 
for  the  better  ! 

Now  I  am  approaching  the  end  of  my  stay  in  Fiji.  I  had 
my  few  belongings  packed,  for  I  had  been  promised  a  berth 
aboard  the  Frigate  Bird,  that  lay  in  Suva  harbour  and  was 
due  to  leave  in  a  few  days.  It  had  been  a  swelteringly  hot 
day.  I  had  told  Mabau  that  I  was  going  away,  and  from 
her  learnt  that  Vituo  had  completely  thrown  her  over  and 
was  much  in  love  with  the  white  woman  who  had  stayed  at 
Suva.  Tears  gleamed  in  her  eyes  as  she  realised  that  I 
should  soon  be  going,  and  as  I  sat  and  played  the  violin  to 
the  men  who  had  befriended  me  while  I  was  hard  up  she 
looked  up  at  me  like  a  whipped  dog,  with  beseeching  eyes, 
and  I  felt  very  sorry  for  her. 

At  sunset  I  walked  with  Bones  under  the  coco-palms  down 
by  the  river.  It  was  to  be  my  last  night.  The  smell  of  the 
decaying  ferns  and  rotting  oranges  in  the  jungle  grass  came 
in  sweet,  damp  drifts  as  the  cool  evening  breeze  sprang  up. 
In  the  trees  a  few  birds  sang,  and  from  far-off  came  the  sound 
of  the  tribal  drums  beating  the  sunset  out,  and  the  stars  to 
the  skies,  over  the  native  village  a  mile  away.  I  had  the 
night  before  been  to  Naraundrau  to  bid  farewell  to  the  old 
missionary.  He  had  crossed  his  hands  on  his  breast  and 

301 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

blessed  me,  then  laid  his  hands  on  my  shoulders,  gazed  into 
my  face  and  said  :  "  Farewell,  my  son  ;  the  blessing  of  God 
be  with  you."  I  left  him  as  a  son  would  a  father,  with  sad- 
ness in  my  soul  for  his  age,  and  in  my  sorrow  I  seemed  to 
hear  a  noise  beating  in  my  heart — like  toiling  shovels  that 
day  by  day  deepened  his  grave. 

As  I  stood  by  the  river  slope  with  Bones  we  heard  the 
paddling  of  a  canoe,  and  round  the  bend  came  Mabau  to 
wish  me  farewell.  She  appeared  very  excited  as  she  jumped 
ashore.  Early  moonrise  bathed  the  pool  waters  as  she  stood 
beneath  the  palms  and  to  our  surprise  said  :  "  Vituo  is 
dead  ;  I  kill  him."  As  she  told  us  this  she  lifted  her  hands 
to  the  sky  and  wailed.  We  tried  to  calm  her,  but  it  was  no 
use ;  we  only  gathered  that  Vituo,  her  faithless  lover,  had 
died  by  her  hand.  Still  I  can  see  her  figure,  mirrored  in 
the  water  of  the  moonlit  pool,  as  she  wailed,  swaying  her 
blood-stained  hands  and  singing  a  death  chant  that  sounded 
like  this  when  translated  : 

"  O  winds  of  night  I  call,  I  call, 
Across  the  hills  of  sleep  ; 
Let  Mabau  to  silence  fall 
For  ever  into  sleep.11 

Then  gazing  over  her  shoulder  she  rushed  off  into  the  jungle, 
and  Bones  and  I  hurried  after  her.  Through  the  trees  we 
saw  her  running.  Then  she  reached  the  sea .  4 '  What' s  she  up 
to  ?  "  said  Bones,  as  we  sighted  the  shore.  Out  on  the  edge 
of  the  promontory,  like  some  carved  goddess,  she  stood, 
appealing  to  the  skies  with  lifted  arms  as  she  wailed  a  primi- 
tive note  of  sorrow.  Moonlight  revealed  her  stricken,  dusky 
face.  Up  went  her  arms  for  a  moment  in  perfect  stillness, 
then  she  dived  !  Bones  and  I  rushed  over  the  reefs  ;  neither 
of  us  had  time  to  think  that  she  might  take  her  own  life. 
Stumbling  into  the  shallow  water  by  the  rocks,  we  reached 
the  promontory  and  the  spot  where  she  went  in.  I  dived 
and  Bones  followed  me.  Round  and  round  we  swam,  moving 
the  liquid  depths,  as  the  imaged  stars  twinkled  and  faded. 
"  Mabau !  Mabau ! "  we  called,  then  we  each  dived, 
scrambled  and  felt  for  her.  No  sight  or  sign  of  life 

302 


THE  REWARD  OF  FAITH 

appeared ;  the  dark  waters  had  taken  her  young  life 
away. 

An  hour  later  Bones  and  I  crept  back  to  the  den,  wretched 
and  sad.  We  did  not  speak  ;  we  still  had  a  faint  hope  that 
she  might  have  swum  round  the  promontory  point,  eluded 
us  and  be  still  alive.  I  could  not  sleep,  and  at  daybreak  we 
started  off  together.  As  we  reached  the  fatal  spot  sunrise 
was  creeping  over  the  Pacific.  Out  on  the  extreme  edge  of 
the  promontory  we  stood  side  by  side  and  looked  down  into 
the  clear  depths,  searching ;  for  on  the  water  floated  her 
ridi,  made  from  a  pretty  piece  of  coloured  silk,  a  present 
to  her  from  the  white  girl  who  had  stayed  at  the  Organization 
room.  I  knew  it  had  been  worn  to  please  Vituo,  whose 
despicable  conduct  had  caused  his  own  death  and  that  of 
Mabau. 

Suddenly  Bones  said :  "  Look ! "  and  pointed  for  a 
moment.  I  hardly  dared  to  gaze  at  the  spot  where  he 
pointed,  and  then  in  perfect  silence  we  looked.  On  the 
sandy  bottom,  deep  down  in  the  water,  by  a  boulder  of  red 
and  white  coral,  was  Mabau,  her  eyelids  apart  as  she  stared 
fixedly  up  through  the  clear,  crystal  depth.  The  first  sun- 
beams stained  the  water  by  her  brown  figure.  The  South 
Seas  wild  blackbird  sang  joyously  in  the  coco-palms,  and 
the  sails  of  the  outbound  schooner  that  caught  the  tide 
faded  on  the  horizon. 

At  sunset  next  day  I  bade  Bones  good-bye  and  sailed  on 
the  Frigate  Bird. 

For  three  months  I  sailed  among  the  islands  in  a  trading 
schooner  and  then  left  it  at  Hiva-oa,  where  I  stayed  for 
three  weeks.  I  was  a  bit  downcast,  and  employed  my  time 
by  hard  study  on  the  violin.  There  was  an  old  wrecked 
schooner  on  the  reefs,  and  at  night  I  used  to  creep  down 
into  her  hold  and  practise.  I  was  ambitious  to  be  a  great 
violinist.  For  a  while  I  was  in  my  element  in  that  ship's 
hold,  and  then  the  natives  heard  my  fiddle  wailing  and  were 
frightened  out  of  their  lives,  thinking  that  the  wreck  was 
haunted  by  evil  spirits.  I  was  innocent  enough  of  it  all  as  I 
played  away  night  after  night,  until,  looking  through  the 

303 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

port-hole  in  the  bright  moonlight,  I  heard  a  jabbering  noise 
and  saw  hordes  of  natives  on  the  beach,  watching  and 
creeping  about  as  I  played  ! 

Then  a  man  came  aboard  the  wreck  and  shouted  down  the 
hold :  "  Halloa  there  !  "  and  told  me  that  all  his  hired 
natives  were  packing  up  and  leaving  for  other  islands,  as 
they  all  thought  when  my  violin  wailed  that  the  old  wreck 
was  haunted  by  spirits  of  heathen  gods.  So  I  lost  my  chance 
of  being  alone  with  my  aspirations  in  the  South  Seas  and 
once  more  got  a  schooner  and  went  off  to  Honolulu  and  other 
islands. 

I  managed,  by  being  careful,  to  save  some  money  from  my 
ship  and  musical  engagements,  for  I  was  abstemious,  and 
devoted  my  spare  time  to  music  and  reading.  I  made 
several  acquaintances  among  the  crews  of  the  ships  that 
traded  among  the  islands,  many  of  whom  were  young 
Englishmen  who  had  left  the  mail-boats  and  the  deep-sea 
liners  to  earn  more  money  on  trading-boats  and  see  the  islands 
and  the  Australian  cities.  I  also  got  to  know  many  German 
and  Colonial  sailors.  The  North  German  Lloyd  mail-ships 
arrived  in  Sydney  weekly,  and  the  hands  would  leave  and  get 
jobs  on  the  small  boats  running  to  Samoa  and  elsewhere  in 
the  Pacific  Isles. 


304 


CHAPTER];XXV 

At  Nuka  Hiva— Gilbert  the  Astronomer— The  Grog  Shanty— The 
Astronomer's  Audience — Ah  Foo,  the  Chinaman — Other  Worlds 
than  Ours — The  Reformed  Traders — The  Death  of  Gilbert 

ABOUT  a  month  after  the  foregoing  incidents  took 
place,  and  while  I  was  in  the  Marquesas  Group,  I 
came  across  an  old  man  who  was  one  of  those 
characters  which  are  often  to  be  met  with  in  the  wild,  outer 
spaces  of  the  world.  He  lived  not  far  from  the  shore-side,  at 
Nuka  Hiva,  and  was  an  enthusiastic  astronomer.  His  lone 
homestead  was  by  the  lowest  peak  of  some  hills,  and  so 
situated  that  it  was  eminently  suitable  for  the  purposes  for 
which  he  required  it,  which  were  rest,  reading  and  quiet, 
and  unobserved  observation  of  the  starry  skies ;  whereat 
for  hours,  with  hopeful  eye  fixed  at  the  telescope,  he  would 
gaze  on  cloudless  nights. 

Night  after  night,  while  the  traders  and  natives  slept,  the 
solitary  old  man  would  sleeplessly  follow  his  hobby.  The 
wild  poetry  of  primeval  nature  surrounded  his  hut  home ; 
the  swinging  seas  thundered  or  softly  broke  over  the  reefs 
below,  and  clumps  of  pandanus-trees  and  coco-palms,  like 
seolian  harps,  caught  the  wandering  winds  and  wailed 
mournfully.  They  were  and  are  wild  places,  and  the 
scattered  isles  were  as  oases  on  the  vast  Sahara  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean.  Tao-o-hae  was  the  nearest  primitive  capital,  where 
strange  races  mingled  and  traded.  Inland  lived  the  old 
tribes,  the  survivors  of  cannibalistic  days.  Those  old  tat-  * 
tooed  Marquesan  chiefs  sat  by  their  conical  dens,  chewed 
modern  plug  tobacco  and  smoked  opium,  and  looked  upon 
the  calaboose  as  the  final  resting-place  for  reflective  age.  In 
the  villages  the  natives  grew  copra  and  tropical  fruits  and 
sold  them  to  the  French,  who  formed  the  greater  part  of  the 
white  population.  They  wore  the  ridi,  and  still  encouraged 
old  tribal  customs,  and  the  native  women  and  girls,  though 

u  305 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

modest  and  virtuous,  were  often  ruined,  body  and  soul,  by 
the  Chinamen  who  sold  them  opium  and  did  many  other 
things. 

Why  old  Gilbert — for  that  was  the  name  we  knew  the 
astronomer  by — had  left  his  native  land  and  lived  this  lonely 
life  was  a  mystery  that  no  one  bothered  about ;  one  thing 
was  certain — he  was  no  myth  and  was  there.  We  all  liked 
him.  Originally  he  must  have  been  a  tall  man,  but  age  had 
bent  his  backbone  and  reduced  his  height  by  about  two 
inches.  His  unkempt  grey  beard  gave  him  a  patriarchal 
aspect,  and  his  deep-set  clear  grey  eyes,  fine,  lofty  brow 
and  kind  expression  revealed  no  hint  of  inward  vice.  The 
native  Marquesan  servant  who  tidied  his  one  room  once  a 
week  was  old  and  wrinkled,  being  over  seventy  years  of  age. 
Photographs  pinned  on  the  wooden  wall  of  his  bedroom 
imaged  the  refined  faces  of  relatives,  one  of  them  a  sad-faced 
young  girl. 

"  Solitary  Gilbert "  was  respected  by  the  white  com- 
munity of  the  district,  a  community  which  chiefly  consisted 
of  traders  and  cast-ashore  sailors  of  various  nations,  and 
represented  the  adventurous  stock  of  England,  Scotland, 
and  France,  one  or  two  Mongolian  niggers,  and  a  full-blooded 
celestial  who  did  their  washing  and  spent  the  proceeds  on 
Marquesan  ladies,  who  wore  few  clothes,  worked  on  the 
various  plantations,  chatted  and  chewed. 

The  traders  used  to  congregate  in  the  grog  shanty,  which 
was  run  by  a  jovial  libre  from  Numea,  the  convict  settle- 
ment, tell  their  various  experiences  and  argue  over  the 
latest  Marquesan  politics  or  murders,  and  also  express  their 
various  views  of  the  local  missionaries,  who  had  long  since 
given  them  up  as  hopeless  atheists.  Drinking  beer  till  their 
teeth  floated  seemed  to  be  the  height  of  their  ambition, 
though  a  few  hoped  to  realise  by  trading  enough  money  to 
go  back  to  their  native  land.  They  were  jovial  men  ;  some 
had  sailed  the  seven  seas,  and  some  had  hurriedly  emigrated 
direct  to  the  South  Seas,  and  only  thought  of  their  country 
in  troublous  dreams ;  but  all  of  them  positively  refused  to  give 
up  their  wild  ways,  listen  to  the  missionaries  and  live  a  sweet 
and  beerless  life.  Only  one  man  had  a  magnetic  influence 

306 


OLD  GILBERT 

for  good  over  them,  and  that  man  was  the  mysterious  old 
astronomer,  Gilbert. 

I  came  to  know  the  lonely  star-watcher  well.  Often 
while  I  was  sitting  in  the  grog  shanty,  listening  to  the 
traders  arguing,  he  would  walk  in,  and  talk  and  lecture  them ; 
and  they  listened  with  profound  respect.  When  excited  by 
the  thrilling  subject  of  his  conversation — the  stars — his  aged 
lips  trembled  and  revealed  the  sensitive  temperament  of  a 
lofty  imagination.  Something  in  his  manner  and  in  his 
earnest  vioce  made  us  all  lift  our  eyes  and  attention  to  him. 

Every  night  he  would  bring  his  telescope  under  his  arm 
and,  perching  it  outside  on  a  beer  barrel,  get  the  traders, 
each  in  turn,  to  fix  their  eyes  to  the  lens  and  gaze  at  the 
heavens.  We  all  liked  the  wise  old  man,  and  from  him  I 
learnt  all  that  I  know  of  the  stars  and  their  travels  through 
space. 

Once  the  old  fellow  was  laid  up  with  a  chill  and  lay  for  two 
or  three  days  in  bed.  I  did  my  best  for  him  as  he  sat  up  in 
his  bunk,  attired  in  a  red  nightshirt,  looking  ill  and  solemn, 
and  passing  the  time  by  talking  philosophy.  Schopenhauer 
was  his  pet  subject  when  he  could  not  gaze  at  the  stars.  He 
gave  me  his  books,  but  though  I  made  a  great  mental  effort 
I  only  succeeded,  after  reading  the  books,  in  discovering 
that  I  knew  nothing,  that  life  was  nothing,  that  creation 
was  a  tremendous  black  nothing  wherein  human  eyes 
continually  opened  and  shaped  all  that  Is  !  That  stars 
flashed  out  of  the  same  human  consciousness  that  imagined 
pain,  passion  and  all  the  arts  and  emotions  which  beautify 
the  imagined  Universe.  As  I  knew  little  at  that  time  of 
philosophy,  old  Gilbert  found  me  an  appreciative  and  quiet 
listener,  who  did  not  argue  on  any  point ;  indeed,  I  became 
fond  of  him  and  so,  through  respect  for  his  memory,  I  am 
now  attempting  a  short  biographical  note  of  his  existence. 

Music  he  loved,  and  I  would  play  the  violin  to  him  ;  old 
and  staid  as  he  was,  when  I  played  softly  and  tenderly  some 
old  melody  his  voice  would  join  tremulously  in  and,  though 
pathetically  toneless,  outrivalled  a  master  voice  by  its 
sincerity.  Poetry  he  liked,  and  beyond  his  table  and  one 
old  chair  and  bunk  bed  his  furniture  consisted  of  two  long 

307 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

shelves  of  classical  books.  Through  him  rny  mind  was 
enlarged,  till  I  realised  that  pianissimo,  legato  and  staccato 
cadenza  and  music's  mysterious  charm,  vaguely  expressed, 
but  did  not  fathom,  the  serious  ideals  of  life ;  were  only  as  a 
wailing,  wandering  wind  of  the  mind,  stirring  the  soul  and 
the  flowers  of  memory,  as  they  sighed  through  the  emotions, 
a  breath  on  the  deep  waters  of  thought. 

Yes,  that  solitary  old  astronomer  friend  of  my  youth, 
though  I  did  not  realise  it  then,  revealed  to  me  that  literature 
and  poetry  were  great  and  beautiful  music  fused  in  the  white 
heat  of  thought's  spiritual  flame,  and  for  that  alone  his 
memory  is  ever  dear  to  me. 

Notwithstanding  his  virtues,  the  missionaries  looked  upon 
him  as  an  old  madman,  and  he  in  turn  gazed  upon  them  with 
intense  pity.  The  storekeeper  hard  by,  who  sold  everything 
from  a  needle  to  tinned  meat,  was  a  "  deeply  religious  "  man 
and  trusted  everyone  but  Gilbert.  I  remember  him  well ; 
he  was  determined  to  be  just  and  right,  spoke  often  about 
God  and  divinity,  with  a  voice  that  rang  with  the  note  of 
justness  and  sounded  like  the  clink  of  Government  scale- 
weights.  He  did  well  in  his  store  shop,  and  I  think  he  would 
have  weighed  a  gift  of  the  widow's  mite  carefully  before  she 
left  his  premises. 

One  night  he  was  discovered  dead,  and  Ah  Foo,  the 
Chinaman,  suddenly  left  the  district ;  though  the  crack  in 
the  storekeeper's  head  was  put  down  to  a  fall,  we  had  our 
suspicions.  The  traders  cursed  the  storekeeper's  death, 
because  Ah  Foo  did  their  washing  and  they  had  now  to  fall 
back  on  the  native  girls,  who  only  wore  ridis  and  grass  and 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  such  finery,  and  so  often 
they  wore  our  shirts  and  collars  and  under-pants  for  weeks 
before  returning  them,  and  if  they  secured  admirers  they 
sometimes  eloped  into  the  forest  with  them,  and  our  washing 
was  seen  no  more  !  So  though  the  islands  were  made  a 
paradise  by  coco-palms,  tropical  fruit  trees,  sea-beaten  reefs 
and  inland  mountains,  they  had  their  drawbacks. 

Gilbert  used  suddenly  to  appear  in  the  grog  shanty,  quietly 
sit  on  a  tub,  look  round,  critically  scan  the  rough,  unshaved 
faces  of  the  traders  and  then  say  :  "  Boys,  beer  may  be  well, 

308 


READING  THE  HEAVENS 

and  doubtless  has  its  advantages,  but  do  you  ever  think  of 
the  skies,  the  vastness  of  space,  with  its  myriads  of  worlds, 
endless  sunsets  and  sunrises  sparkling  through  infinite 
gloom  ?  "  At  this  they  would  wipe  their  mouths  with  the 
back  of  their  hands  and  gaze  awestruck  at  one  another, 
each  seeking  to  hear  a  reply  from  the  other,  for  the  word 
"  infinity  "  had  something  in  it  that  outwitted  their  compre- 
hension. The  oldest  and  biggest  scoundrel  of  the  lot  would 
look  the  most  earnest  and,  after  placing  his  quart  pot  on  the 
shanty  bench,  slowly  wipe  his  bearded  mouth  and  say  : 
"  Professor,  we  do  think  of  them  'ere  marvellous  things  ; 
nights  and  nights  they  worries  us  when  we  thinks  of  the 
vast  abscess  "  (abyss)  "  called  Space."  Then  old  Gilbert, 
encouraged,  would  once  more  proceed  and  say  :  "  Like  unto 
Thee,  space  hath  no  end ;  and  the  stars,  which  are  as  the  dust 
of  heaven,  eternally  roll  out  blue  days  and  sunsets  for  endless 
myriads  of  worlds  that  are  sparkling  through  infinite  space. 
Yet,  O  men,  are  thy  souls  immersed  in  no  more  than  the 
fumes  of  beer !  "  At  this  the  trader  would  get  argumentative 
and  say  :  "  What's  the  end  of  space,  and  if  yer  go  to  the  end 
where  would  yer  fall  if  yer  fell  over  ?  " 

"  O  man  of  beer,"  old  Gilbert  answered,  delighted  to 
have  got  up  a  controversy  over  his  pet  hobby,  "  your 
thoughts  cannot  out-travel  the  range  of  your  intellect ;  you 
but  surmise  an  end,  because  your  intellect  hath  an  end ; 
thou  art  finite  and  the  heavens  infinite,"  and  after  saying 
this,  which  was  Greek  to  them  all,  he  brought  forth  his  tele- 
scope from  under  his  coat.  Each  one  outside  under  the 
clear  tropical  skies  would  glue  his  curious  eye  to  the  end  of 
the  tube  and  gaze  at  the  orbs  of  space  ;  and  so  the  professor 
spent  his  time  and  gradually  induced  in  the  rough  traders  a 
genuine  love  of  astronomy. 

They  all  got  really  to  like  him  and  listened  eagerly  to  all 
he  said,  and  often  they  ceased  their  drinking  bouts  and 
saved  their  money  when  their  trading-ships  came  in  from 
the  scattered  isles  of  the  North  and  South  Pacific.  Many 
nights  down  the  slopes  they  went  like  obedient  children, 
following  old  Gilbert  in  single  file,  as  they  walked  along 
looking  up  at  the  stars,  towards  Gilbert's  observatory. 

309 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

They  surrounded  him  ;  in  a  ring,  on  the  lonely  hill  at  mid- 
night, they  listened  to  his  lecture,  gazed  through  his  old 
Herschelian  telescope  at  the  seaward  stars  and  the  moon, 
and  then  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  astonished,  saying  : 
"  Wonderful,  mates,  all  them  'ere  worlds,  like  this  'ere,  and 
the  professor's  found  'em  1  " 

Gilbert  would  stand  on  the  beach,  proudly  gazing  upon  his 
sinful,  rough  pupils,  as  the  sea- winds  stirred  his  grey  beard, 
and  his  deep-set  eyes  shone  as  they  probed  him  with  ques- 
tions, not  to  please  him,  but  from  intellectual  curiosity. 
Afterwards  he  granted  them  all  one  final  drink  of  rum  ! 

When  he  died  he  was  buried  in  the  little  railed-in  plateau, 
where  also  lay  the  dust  of  exiled  white  men  and  a  few 
Marquesan  chiefs  of  the  old  times,  who  slept  quietly  in  that 
silent  cemetery  by  the  mountains.  When  the  traders  stood 
by  old  Gilbert's  grave,  and  slowly  lowered  the  coffin  down, 
tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  even  the  worst  of  them.  He  had 
made  them  better  men,  and  through  his  little  telescope  tube, 
which  pointed  to  the  heavens,  he  had  put  into  their  hearts 
thoughts  on  the  grandeur  of  creation  and  reverence  for 
God's  wonderful  work. 

So  Gilbert  lived,  toiled  and  died,  the  sincerest  and  most 
successful  missionary  of  the  far  South  Seas. 


310 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  Deck-hand  on  Board  the  Eldorado — A  Socialist — A  Fo'c'sle 
Fight — Buying  an  Island — Apemama — King  Tembinok — The 
Eldorado  sails — Tembinok's  Palace — Seeking  the  Enemy — The 
captured  Chief — The  Hurricane 

IN  Sydney  long  ago  I  shipped  as  deck-hand  on  board  the 
Eldorado,  a  schooner  bound  for  Fiji  and  the  Gilbert 
Groups.     The  first  night  out  we  squared  the  yards ;  the 
wind  was  aft  and  the  canvas  bellied  out  steadily  as  we  dipped 
along  under  the  stars  at  a  good  eight  knots. 

On  board,  as  saloon  passenger,  was  a  Mr  Milburn,  a 
socialistic  crank  of  the  theorist  school.  He  was  aboard  on 
the  outlook  for  an  island  which  he  could  buy  and  which 
would  suit  a  socialistic  colony,  and  he  had  got  it  into  his  head 
that  Apemama  was  a  likely  spot  to  start  his  scheme.  The 
skipper,  a  Yankee  with  long  face  and  billygoat  whiskers,  was 
mostly  drunk,  and  would  stand  on  the  poop  aft,  telling 
Milburn  that  the  King  of  Apemama  was  an  old  pal  of  his 
and  he  knew  for  a  positive  fact  that  he  wanted  to  sell  his 
dominion.  Milburn' s  blue  eyes  shone  with  delight  as  the 
skipper  listened  to  him  and  kept  saying  :  "  The  very  thing, 
the  very  spot !  I  guess  you'll  be  glad  yer  shipped  aboard 
here  when  yer  see  the  isles,"  and  then  he  would  smack 
Milburn  on  the  back,  for  they  were  having  high  jinks  in  the 
cabin  aft.  Milburn  had  plenty  of  money  and  gave  it  freely 
to  the  skipper,  who  could  hardly  conceal  his  satisfaction  as 
he  opened  bottle  after  bottle  of  whisky  and  gave  us  cigars. 

We  arrived  in  due  course  at  Suva,  Fiji.  Milburn  went 
ashore  and  looked  around  and  was  delighted  with  all  he  saw. 
The  skipper  kept  close  to  him  and  said  :  "  I  guess  if  you  like 

this  d d  place  you'll  go  daft  with  joy  when  you  see 

Apemama."  We  only  stayed  two  days  at  Fiji  and  then  left 
for  the  group  of  islands  of  which  Apemama  was  one.  With 
fair  winds  we  made  a  quick  trip  and  soon  dropped  anchor  off 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

the  lagoon  isle.  Milburn,  through  a  telescope,  gazed 
enthusiastically  across  the  lagoon  and  on  to  the  atolls  and 
groves  of  distant  waving  coco-palms  ;  the  skipper  stood 
beside  him  and,  as  Milburn  gazed,  smacked  him  on  the  back 
and  nudged  him  in  the  ribs,  saying  :  "I  guess  that'll  suit 
you  right  enough,  eh  ?  "  He  told  Milburn  to  leave  the 
purchasing  to  him  and  the  isle  would  soon  be  Milburn  Isle, 
the  socialistic  El  Dorado  of  the  South  Seas. 

I  instinctively  knew  that  the  skipper  was  on  some  scheme, 
and  I  had  discovered  that  he  was  the  biggest  liar  on  earth 
and  sea,  so  when  he  said  that  he  knew  that  Milburn  could 
purchase  Apemama  I  had  my  own  doubts ;  but  Milburn  was 
a  bit  soft,  treated  the  skipper  with  drink  and  money  in 
advance  and  had  positive  faith  in  his  promises. 

Later  Milburn  and  I  sat  on  the  cabin  settee  and  had  a 
whisky  each.  We  liked  each  other,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  we 
were  the  only  respectable  members  of  polite  society  on  board, 
for  the  crew  was  made  up  of  two  or  three  Americans  or 
negroes,  three  Polynesians,  a  half-blood,  a  lascar  and  a 
Dutch  American.  I  felt  a  bit  out  of  sorts,  for  the  night 
before  there  had  been  a  terrible  row  in  the  foVsle  while  the 
crew  were  sitting  around  their  bench,  shuffling  and  playing 
cards  .by  the  oil  fo'c'sle  lamp. 

I  was  standing  smoking  and  watching,  when  suddenly  I 
was  astonished  to  see  them  all  jump  off  their  feet  and  start 
a  regular  tribalistic  battle ;  one  had  been  caught  cheating 
and  they  took  sides.  You  never  saw  such  a  jumbled  sight 
of  struggling  figures  as  the  shadows  of  knives  danced  on  the 
walls.  A  white  man  fell  on  top  of  a  half-blood,  who  fastened 
his  yellowish  teeth  into  his  opponent's  ear  ;  he  wouldn't  let 
go,  and  the  white  pounded  away  at  his  face  with  his  clenched 
fists,  as  the  half-blood  tugged  and  chewed  away  at  his  ear. 
As  the  American  punched  him  he  cried  out :  "  Yer-rrrr- 
rr-ip  !  Yerrr-rr-ip  !  "  and  the  white  man  shouted  :  "  You 

d— — d ,"  and  many  more  things,  only  to  be 

described  in  dashes.  A  Chinaman  who  was  shouting : 
"Kee-Honk!  Chow  k-rrr— Chrry  1 "  suddenly  fell,  as 
an  empty  hundred- pound  beef  tub  hit  him  behind  the  ear. 
He  was  buried  overboard  that  same  night ;  and  what  with 

313 


KING  TEMBINOK 

one  thing  and  another,  as  I  said  before,  I  was  a  bit  out  of 
sorts  and  glad  of  a  little  whisky  for  medicinal  purposes. 
Milburn  also  was  a  bit  shaky.  The  skipper  had  shot  the  tip 
of  the  half-blood's  chin  off  and  then  the  matter  ended,  and 
all  I  got  out  of  it  was  a  lost  tooth  and  the  knowledge  that 
white  men  in  a  passion  get  purply  red  in  the  neck  and  foamy 
at  the  mouth,  and  that  the  eyes  of  the  savage  races  turn 
yellowish  and  their  brown  lips  whitish. 

The  skipper,  who  had  gone  on  shore,  returned  at  sunset 
with  four  canoes  crammed  with  natives,  and  a  solemn- 
looking  old  chap  with  a  large,  flattish  nose,  wide  nostrils  and 
a  wrinkled  face  expressing  chimpanzee  astuteness.  He  was 
introduced  to  Milburn,  as  his  half-naked  form  clambered  up 
the  rope  gangway  and  he  leapt  on  deck.  To  my  surprise  I 
heard  that  he  was  King  Tembinok. 

With  a  retinue  of  dusky  courtiers,  dressed  in  cast-off 
shirts,  in  Indian  file  behind  him,  he  strutted  along  the  deck, 
gazed  almost  scornfully  at  the  crew,  who  were  specially 
mustered  to  pay  respect  to  royalty,  and  then  looked  us  all 
up  and  down  as  though  we  were  a  menagerie  group  on  show. 
Royally  did  he  carry  himself,  demanding  little  attentions 
from  his  retinue,  who  obeyed  his  every  wish  with  alacrity. 
He  swung  a  huge  war-club  to  and  fro,  as  though  his 
whole  being  itched  to  find  fault  and  brain  the  first  native 
who  might,  to  his  intense  relief,  mistake  his  hurried  orders. 

4  You  Misser  Milbur,  who  want  to  buy  island  ?  "  he 
said,  gazing  up  at  Milburn,  who  looked  slightly  embarrassed 
as  he  bowed,  while  the  skipper  rubbed  his  hands  together 
and  smiled  with  inward  satisfaction.  '  Yes,  your  Majesty, 
such  is  my  wish,  if  your  dominion  is  for  sale."  At  this  the 
King  bowed  graciously  and  said  :  "  Good  isles,  much  land, 
plenty  houses  and  coco-palms,  but  me  sell  to  white  man  if 
the  money  'nough."  "  I  have  come  specially  from  Australia 
to  buy  an  island,  and  your  land  is  most  suitable,  and  I  have 
the  money  to  buy  it,"  Milburn  answered.  King  Tembinok 
bowed  once  more,  till  the  royal  robe  of  tappu-cloth  touched 
the  deck  in  front  of  his  feet  and  revealed  his  bare  legs  behind 
him.  His  beady,  intelligent  eyes  rolled  with  delight,  and 
somewhat  destroyed  his  majestic  bearing,  as  the  skipper 

313 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

bowed  him  and  Milburn  into  the  dining  saloon.  He  turned 
his  head,  spat  in  the  tiny  calabash  that  his  orderly  ever  held 
behind  him,  and  disappeared. 

I  don't  know  the  exact  details  of  what  passed  in  the  cabin, 
but  the  King  eventually  came  out  on  deck  blind  drunk,  with 
four  bottles  of  whisky  and  rum,  two  bottles  under  each  arm. 
His  retinue  tied  ropes  round  him,  and  his  big  dark  lips 
slobbered  and  grinned  as  they  slowly  lowered  his  royal 
carcass  down  into  the  boat.  The  skipper  leaned  over  the 
side  and  shouted,  telling  them  to  clear  off  ashore. 

It  appeared  that  Milburn  had  bought  the  island  and  given 
the  King  a  large  amount  in  cash  as  a  deposit,  and  had  also 
given  a  hundred  pounds  to  the  skipper  as  commission  and 
for  his  kindness  and  help  in  the  transaction. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  Milburn  was  a  bit  the  worse  for 
whisky,  and  anxious  to  get  ashore  and  see  the  island,  which 
was  only  natural.  The  skipper  looked  a  bit  uneasy  and  tried 
to  persuade  him  to  go  to  bed  and  go  ashore  on  the  morrow, 
but  he  was  determined,  and  as  the  skipper  went  into  his 
cabin  Milburn  called  the  native  occupants  of  a  canoe  that 
was  hovering  by  the  ship's  bows  and  bargained  with  them  to 
take  him  ashore.  He  begged  me  to  go  with  him,  and  at  last 
I  accepted  the  offer,  for  I  also  was  eager  to  have  a  look  round, 
and  in  a  tick  I  slid  down  the  rope  and  off  we  went  towards 
the  shore. 

With  a  jerk  the  canoe  touched  the  reef  and  we  jumped 
ashore.  Before  us  lay  groves  of  moonlit  coco-palms, 
pandanus  and  island  pines ;  behind  us  the  silvered  breakers 
were  charging  and  curling  over  the  lines  of  coral  reefs  as  we 
tramped  together  up  the  shore.  Milburn's  mouth  opened 
with  excitement  and  pleasure.  "  Dear,  dear,"  he  said,  as 
his  eyes  gleamed  with  delight  about  the  bargain  he  had  made. 
Side  by  side  we  stood  on  the  plateau  and  gazed  on  the 
glimmering  island  landscape,  looking  at  the  natives  and  their 
children  moving  about  near  their  den-like  homes.  I,  too, 
felt  some  of  Milburn's  enthusiasm,  for  the  isle  seemed  a  very 
paradise  of  peace  and  quiet.  I  almost  envied  the  socialist 
colonist,  who,  I  thought,  would  soon  live  at  Apemama,  and 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  stick  to  Mr  Milburn,  for  I  saw  that  he 


IN  THE  ROYAL  PALACE 

would  soon  be  the  reigning  monarch  and  my  influential 
friend. 

Not  far  off  glimmered  the  whitish  terraced  stockade  of  the 
King's  palace.  "  Come  on,"  said  Milbum,  "we  will  go  and 
see  the  King  ;  he's  a  good  fellow  and  by  now  will  be  sober." 
Saying  this  he  led  the  way,  and  the  natives,  who  had  answered 
our  inquiries  with  awestruck  eyes,  followed  us  as  we  passed 
by  the  palms  and  kicked  the  sand  up  with  our  boots,  our 
monstrous  shadows  gliding  across  the  still  moonlit  lagoon 
as  we  went  by.  Little  native  children  came  with  their  dark 
mothers  from  the  native  homes  among  the  palm-trees  and 
looked  at  us  with  awestruck  eyes. 

As  we  strode  on  Milburn's  walk  became  almost  majestic, 
as  he  thought  of  his  kingship  over  that  island,  and  I  must 
admit  I  felt  a  bit  swaggery  too  over  my  prospects.  It  was 
excusable,  though,  in  me,  for  I  had  had  many  ups  and  downs, 
and  all  the  bread  I  had  cast  on  the  waters  had  returned  to 
me  after  many  days,  buttered  with  phosphorus  paste,  so  to 
speak. 

Soon  we  were  asking  the  high  chiefs  if  we  could  see 
the  King.  At  first  they  demurred,  and  held  a  council  by  the 
stockade  gate.  Milburn  tried  to  explain  to  them  that  the 
island  was  now  his.  "  You  no  savee,"  he  said,  as  they 
guarded  the  entrance  and  looked  at  him  fiercely  and 
curiously.  "  No  see  King,"  they  replied,  but  Milburn  put  a 
silver  coin  into  the  hand  of  the  head  vassal,  and  then  at  once, 
with  much  ceremony,  we  entered  through  the  stockades  of 
coral  rock  and  bamboo  posts  and  went  up  by  the  palisade 
that  led  to  his  Majesty's  palace  bungalows.  Four  high 
chiefs  accompanied  us,  with  ponderous  war-clubs  that 
enforced  the  laws  of  Apemama.  At  the  end  of  the  winding 
pathway,  shaded  by  palms,  they  all  stopped  and  said  : 
14  You  want  see  King  Tembinok  ?  "  "  Yes,"  said  Milburn, 
showing  great  irritation  at  the  delay  and  absurd  ceremony 
that  we  had  to  go  through  to  seek  the  King's  presence  ;  for 
had  not  the  King  a  few  hours  before  embraced  him  and 
departed  from  the  Eldorado's  decks  very  drunk  ?  Again 
we  all  moved  on.  Walking  through  a  narrow  archway  we 
entered  the  royal  waiting  chamber  ;  it  was  high-roofed  for  a 

315 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

South  Sea  palace,  and  thick  tappu-cloth  curtains  divided  it 
from  the  room  wherein  King  Tembinok  sat.  "  He  does 
things  in  style,"  said  Milburn,  as  we  looked  round  and 
listened  to  four  Apemama  females  who  sat  by  the  royal  door- 
way, twanged  strings  fastened  across  gourds  and  sang  songs 
that  told  of  love  and  the  mighty  deeds  of  Tembinok's 
ancestors.  "  I  wonder  if  he's  sober,"  I  muttered,  thinking  to 
myself  how  different  and  austere  all  looked  from  what  I  had 
anticipated.  Suddenly  the  leading  chief,  who  was  in  front 
of  us,  said :  "  Tereoaka  "  ("  white  man  ").  Then  we  watched, 
for  he  turned  and  said  something  to  us  that  intimated  that 
the  King  was  approaching.  The  thick  tapestry  curtain 
suddenly  divided  ;  my  heart  beat  rapidly.  King  Tembinok 
stood  before  us  !  At  first  Milburn  instinctively  looked  over 
and  beyond  the  King's  shoulder,  for  we  had  not  yet  realised 
that  he  was  the  King  ;  then  in  a  moment  I  saw  it  all ;  the 
old  liar  of  a  skipper  had  brought  a  dummy  king  on  to  the 
ship  and  Milburn  had  been  done  !  Milburn  seemed  dazed, 
then  once  more  loudly  demanded  to  see  the  King  !  Tembinok 
stared  fiercely  at  him.  I  gave  Milburn  a  nudge,  but  he 
seemed  to  lose  his  head  and  shouted  once  again  :  "  Where 
the  hell's  the  King  ?  "  The  King,  thinking  he  was  mad,  in  a 
loud  voice  shouted  a  command  in  his  own  language  ;  at  once 
all  the  chiefs  raised  their  clubs  and  the  royal  serenading  of 
the  palace  harem  suddenly  ceased !  I  lifted  my  hands  and 
made  rapid  signs,  and  in  my  fright  pointed  to  my  own  head, 
to  intimate  that  Milburn  was  insane.  I  thought  it  the  only 
thing  to  do,  for  his  sake  and  mine  also.  Tembinok  seemed 
to  understand  me,  but  he  stood  before  us  wrinkling  and 
frowning  fiercely  at  Milburn's  manner.  He  had  been  dis- 
turbed from  his  sleep.  His  tall  form  was  robed  in  a  dis- 
carded man-o' -war's  uniform  and  his  corpulence  bulged  it 
considerably.  His  sleepy  eyes  still  looked  fierce  as  he  gazed 
upon  us,  and  then  Milburn  shouted  :  "  I've  bought  this 
island  !  Where's  the  late  King  ?  "  Tembinok  could  under- 
stand a  little  English,  and  on  hearing  this  stared  speechless 
with  amazement,  then  lifted  his  hand  as  though  to  give 
Milburn  a  clout.  Milburn  was  a  fool,  but  no  coward,  and  I 
really  believe  he  would  have  gone  for  Tembinok  if  I  had  not 

316 


SURVIVAL  OF  THE  FITTEST 

hurriedly  grasped  him  and  shouted  :  "  You  blind  ass,  the 
skipper's  done  you.  This  is  King  Tembinok."  Not  till  I 
said  that  did  Milburn  see  the  whole  situation,  and  then,  to 

my  great  relief,  he  breathed  out :  "Well,  I'm  d d."  Then, 

by  gesticulations  and  pidgin-English,  we  told  Tembinok  all, 
at  which  he  became  most  courteous  and  invited  us  to  come 
ashore  on  the  morrow  and  look  round  the  palace. 

Milburn  was  almost  mad  with  rage  and  itching  to  get  back 
to  the  ship  to  have  a  reckoning  with  the  Yankee  skipper.  I 
saw  that  he  was,  after  all,  not  the  kind  of  man  to  be  done, 
and  that  he  believed  in  getting  his  money's  worth  and  being 
boss  in  his  own  line,  notwithstanding  his  theories  on  social- 
ism. We  both  grasped  Tembinok's  hand  and  accepted  his 
kind  invitation  to  call  at  the  palace  the  next  day ;  and  then 
the  high  chiefs,  wondering  at  the  whole  business,  rolled 
their  banana-leaf  cigarettes  between  their  fingers,  bowed  and 
led  us  out  of  the  royal  presence  and  through  the  gates  of  the 
palace  stockades. 

We  hurried  down  to  the  shore  ;  all  was  silent  except  a  few 
natives  singing  as  they  took  a  moonlight  bathe  in  the  waves. 
We  looked  across  the  lagoon  and  both  stared  ;  the  ship  was 
gone  !  Seaward,  like  a  bird  with  many  wings,  fast  disappear- 
ing under  the  brilliant  moon,  we  saw  afar  the  Eldorado  taking 
advantage  of  the  breeze ;  for  the  skipper  was  crowding  on  all 
sail.  He  had  flown  ! 

I  will  not  tell  you  what  Milburn  and  I  said.  Heaven  will 
forgive  us  ;  it  was  unprintable.  All  our  belongings  were  on 
board  too  !  We  were  both  stranded,  and  the  skipper  had 
made  the  most  profitable  voyage  of  his  life.  We  told  the 
natives  to  keep  a  lookout  for  the  next  trading-boat  and,  side 
by  side,  without  saying  a  word,  but  deep  in  thought,  we  went 
back  to  the  palace. 

Tembinok  had  been  thinking  the  matter  over  in  our 
absence  and  was  in  a  great  rage  at  being  impersonated.  He 
was  a  wonderful-looking  old  fellow,  with  bright  eyes,  a  keen 
yet  half -humorous  expression  and  slightly  full  lips.  He 
carried  himself  as  though  he  was  the  one  and  only  king  on 
earth.  He  at  once  invited  us  to  stop  till  a  boat  came  and 
gave  us  a  chance  to  go  away.  It  was  well  for  the  skipper 

317 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

that  he  had  gone,  for  I  really  believe  the  ship  would  have 
been  bombarded  that  same  night  by  the  native  King's 
battalions,  so  great  was  the  royal  rage.  We  gave  Tembinok 
a  description  of  the  sham  king,  and  then  some  natives,  who 
had  come  aboard,  accepted  a  bribe  and  told  all ;  he  was  a 
Marquesan  chief  who  then  lived  on  the  neighbouring  Isle 
Kuria  and  was  a  deadly  enemy  of  Tembinok.  A  war  council 
was  held  and  things  began  to  look  much  brighter  than  I  ex- 
pected for  Milburn,  who  promised  to  give  me  a  hundred  pounds 
if  I  stuck  to  him  and  helped  him  get  some  of  his  deposit 
back,  and  also  a  bit  of  his  own  back  off  that  fraudulent  king. 

That  night  we  stopped  at  the  palace.  Poor  old  Milburn 
looked  pale  and  almost  cried  when  he  thought  of  how  he  had 
been  done,  and  I  could  see  that  he  had  set  his  heart  on 
getting  the  island.  Tembinok  turned  out  a  good  sort ;  the 
fierce  expression  of  his  countenance  had  changed  to  one  of 
majestic  benevolence,  as  he  gazed  upon  us  and  we  humbly 
sat  on  mats  before  him.  "  You  buy  island  ?  "  he  said,  and 
then  with  a  most  conspicuous  attempt  at  concealing  his 
cynical  amusement  solemnly  gave  orders  to  his  head  wives, 
who  sang  to  him  and  fanned  off  the  droves  of  mosquitoes 
that  attacked  his  eyes  and  face. 

The  palace  contained  many  rooms,  through  which  crept 
barefooted  native  girls  busily  attending  to  the  numerous  re- 
quirements of  the  head  queen.  She  was  a  fat,  oily-looking 
woman,  of  about  forty  years  of  age,  who  put  on  terrible  side 
and  blinked  her  eyes  as  we  surveyed  her  respectfully.  Two 
eunuchs  kept  blowing  cooling  breath  on  to  her  perspiring 
body,  for  the  little  wind  that  blew  was  extremely  hot. 

We  slept  nearly  all  next  day  and  then  went  to  see  the 
neighbouring  villages  ;  the  natives  had  comfortable  wooden 
homes  (maniaps)  built  on  posts,  open  at  the  sides  to  let  the 
wind  in.  We  soon  tired,  and  again  returned  that  night  to  the 
palace  and  were  then  allowed,  for  the  first  time,  to  go  over 
the  various  rooms.  I  was  astonished  at  all  we  saw,  for  it 
was  furnished  well  with  native  and  European  furniture.  It 
seemed  hard  to  believe  that  the  memory  of  the  King  could  go 
back  to  cannibalism  and  strangulating  festivals ;  indeed, 
such  things  were  still  practised  in  moderation.  On  the  walls 

318 


SOUTH  SEA  MORALS 

hung  clubs,  muzzle-loading  rifles  and  many  murderous 
weapons  of  savage  warfare  and  law. 

A  pretty  maid  blew  weird  music  through  a  bone  flute, 
serenading  the  queen,  who  moved  her  fat  lips  in  lisping 
murmurs  of  melody,  while  six  squatting  maidens  waved 
their  long  arms  and  sang.  On  the  wooden  walls  the  shadows 
of  the  pandanus  and  palms  waved  in  the  brilliant  moonlight 
that  lit  the  palace  glooms. 

No  king  in  the  South  Seas  lived  in  such  royal  state  as 
Tembinok  ;  he  reigned  supreme  in  his  terraced  seraglio  and 
lived  a  life  of  luxury  and  command,  a  life  that  to  Western 
minds  would  seem  one  of  selfish  debauchery  and  fiery  lust, 
but  by  the  code  of  South  Sea  morals  was  one  of  extreme 
virtue  and  moderation  amounting  to  self-sacrifice. 

Milburn  gasped  with  horror  as  a  Samoan  attendant  told 
us  of  Tembinok  and  his  ancestors.  With  their  own  hands 
they  had  strangled  wives  and  concubines  who  had  given 
elsewhere  that  which  was  destined  for  the  royal  favour  only. 
In  some  of  the  bed-chambers  still  lay  the  bones  of  the  victims 
who  had  been  sharers  in  the  offence,  for  they  were  buried 
under  the  floor  matting.  They  were  generally  chiefs  who 
had  met  their  end,  through  some  slight  suspicion,  from  the 
club  of  Tembinok  or  his  ancestors  who  reigned  before  him. 
They  would  creep  by  night  into  the  supposed  culprit's 
sleeping-room  and  crash  his  skull  in  while  he  slept.  Often 
down  those  very  corridors,  where  Milburn  and  I  sat  listening, 
crept,  in  the  dead  of  night,  files  of  harem  wives,  stealthily 
moving  towards  the  woman  who  it  was  suspected  had  given 
herself  up  to  other  than  the  king.  With  exultation  alight 
in  their  eyes  they  would  do  Tembinok's  bidding,  for  jealousy 
of  each  other  was  their  one  pronounced  virtue,  and  seldom 
was  more  than  one  stifled  scream  heard,  as  they  clutched  the 
sleeping  victim  on  her  bed  mat,  all  their  hands  struggling  in 
rivalship  together  to  strangle  the  sleeping  concubine  who 
had  betrayed  their  master.  As  the  Samoan  from  Apia,  who 
was  employed  at  the  palace,  told  us  all  this,  Milburn  and 
I  felt  a  bit  uncomfortable  about  our  own  presence,  and  I 
looked  carefully  at  the  revolver  which  I  always  carried  with 
me.  Then  I  had  several  drinks  from  Milburn's  flask,  and 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

that  and  the  thought  of  the  hundred  pounds  he  had  promised 
me  stifled  my  qualms  ;  we  went  off  to  our  allotted  apart- 
ments, slept  close  together  and,  to  our  great  satisfaction, 
survived  the  night. 

Fortunately  I  had  several  plugs  of  ship's  tobacco  and  so 
secured  the  friendship  of  chiefs  of  high  ancestral  standing. 
I  held  the  plugs  tightly  in  my  hand  and  they  each  in  turn  bit 
off  the  allowance  I  allotted  them.  They  seemed  very  proud 
men  and  kept  saying,  "  Me  great  chief,"  and  giving  details 
of  their  ancestry,  for  having  no  Peerage  or  Who's  Who 
they  were  obliged  to  remind  people,  to  keep  the  old  names 
going. 

It  was  a  beautiful  isle,  and  next  morning  I  felt  glad  to  be 
with  Milburn  there  and  felt  extremely  happy ;  birds  sang 
up  in  the  pandanus-trees,  sunlight  danced  on  coral-floored 
waters,  the  very  fish  seemed  happy  as  they  leapt  in  the  still 
lagoons.  Milburn  said  he  would  like  to  stay  there  all  his 
life,  and  for  a  while  he  forgot  his  sorrows  ;  and  well  he  might, 
for  I  knew  that  if  he  persevered  in  trying  to  get  his  money 
back  he  would  have  plenty  of  trouble  in  store  for  him. 
"  When  I  get  my  deposit  back  I'll  stop  and  go  cruising 
these  seas,"  he  said,  and  I  agreed  to  go  with  him. 

On  the  slopes  by  Tembinok's  palace  romped  the  native 
children,  while  the  Apemama  maids  sewed  dress  material 
into  new  designs,  for  the  fashion  changed  and  the  ridis  would 
be  increased  by  one  inch,  or  reduced,  or  an  extra  tassel  added. 
The  chief  characteristic  of  Apemama  ladies  was  not  modesty, 
but  the  bareness  of  their  curved  figures  served  as  steel  armour 
to  protect  their  loose  virtue ;  for  the  rumours  of  punishments 
that  had  been  dealt  out  for  amorous  crimes  made  white  men 
and  brown  men  alike  regard  the  maiden  bareness  with  horror. 

That  day  Tembinok  and  his  war  council  decided  to  go  with 
a  fleet  of  canoes  to  Kuria  and  seek  the  chief  who  had  aided  our 
skipper  in  his  cruel  duplicity.  Milburn  heard  this  decision 
with  delight,  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  must  confess  that  my  joy 
was  considerably  damped  when  the  council  added  that  we 
also  should  go  with  them  to  seek  and  attack  the  enemy.  We 
did  not  like  to  appear  afraid,  so  we  asked  for  a  little  time  to 
decide,  and  finally  told  the  high  chief  to  tell  Tembinok  that 

320 


WE  JOIN  TEMBINOK'S  ARMY 

we  would  follow  the  fleet  of  canoes  in  a  boat  some  distance 
behind  ! 

During  the  day  the  sun  shone  down  on  the  isle  in  dazzling 
tropic  flame ;  the  whole  town  lazily  lolled  and  snoozed  in 
the  shades  of  the  palms  or  by  the  piazzas  of  their  homes,  by 
groves  of  bananas  and  pandanus.  In  the  afternoon,  to  kill 
time,  we  went  for  a  row  in  a  native  boat  across  the  lagoon 
and  up  and  down  the  creeks  and  shallows  of  the  atolls.  The 
water  was  as  clear  as  crystal,  and  we  could  look  over  the  boat's 
side  and  see  numerous  brightly  coloured  fish  darting  and 
hovering  among  the  scintillating  seaweeds  that  waved  gently 
over  floors  of  sparkling  corals ;  and  as  we  watched  it  seemed 
that  we  looked  through  a  vast  magnifying-glass  at  forests 
or  worlds  far  away,  as  branches  shone  with  rich  crimson, 
green,  indigo  or  blue  deep  down  in  those  depths  that  shone 
like  some  magic  world  blazed  up  by  rainbows. 

To  our  delight  and  relief,  for  we  were  both  deep  in  thought 
over  the  coming  battle,  before  sunset  the  sails  of  a  schooner 
came  through  the  sky-line,  and  before  the  stars  hung  in  the 
darkening  blue  over  the  sea  she  was  ploughing  toward  us, 
within  five  miles  of  the  immense  island  lagoon. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  High  Chief  Taku  and  fifty 
warriors  should  put  off  at  dusk  to  seek  the  enemy.  It  all 
seemed  like  a  dream  to  me  ;  I  had  to  shake  myself  to  realise 
the  position,  for  it  seemed  more  like  some  tale  from  fiction 
than  reality.  But  it  was  real  enough,  for  there  stood  Milburn 
in  the  flesh  before  me,  talking  to  the  natives.  I  found  that 
their  great  incentive  to  help  us  was  Milburn  offering  to  buy 
cargo  for  them  all  as  soon  as  the  next  trading  ship  called 
at  Apemama.  The  cargoes  consisted  chiefly  of  trifles,  or- 
naments, old  tickless  clocks,  muzzle-loaders,  tobacco  and 
artificial  jewellery ;  the  latter  adorned  the  bodies  of  the 
whole  tribe  and  was  the  chief  dress  of  marriageable  maids. 
"  What's  the  good  of  this  game,  Mr  Milburn  ?  "  I  said,  as 
darkness  fell  and  I  saw  the  natives  filling  their  canoes  with 
ammunition — war- clubs,  and  old-fashioned  muzzle-loading 
rifles.  "  Are  you  determined  to  go  ?  "  "  Most  decidedly," 
he  replied,  "  and  after  I  have  settled  with  this  case  I'll 
settle  with  your  skipper."  "  Right  you  are,"  I  answered, 
x  321 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

At  dusk  the  canoes  shoved  off  the  silver  sands  and  put  to 
sea.  Milburn  and  I,  armed  to  the  teeth,  in  an  old  ship's 
boat,  bravely  crept  behind.  It  was  a  clear,  starlit  night ; 
so  bright  were  the  stars  that  they  looked  like  flowers  of 
flame  in  the  deep,  dark  blue  vault ;  our  shadows  glided 
through  the  waters  that  mirrored  the  heavens  as  we  paddled 
by.  As  we  passed  the  schooner,  that  had  anchored  at  sun- 
set, out  came  a  boat  to  meet  us,  and  then  I  saw  that  Milburn 
was  a  careful  man  and  also  why  he  was  so  brave.  He  had 
been  aboard  and  told  the  skipper  all,  and  arranged  for  them 
to  watch  for  us  and  come  and  convoy  our  boat  across  to 
Kuria.  I  dare  say  they  all  got  a  good  tip  from  him. 

When  at  length  we  arrived  the  natives  crept  by  a  lagoon ; 
Milburn  and  I  sat  in  the  boat  silent  with  excitement,  as  we 
smoked,  kept  a  sharp  outlook  and  waited  results.  Taku 
knew  where  the  enemy  lived.  The  whole  horde  crept  to  his 
hut  and  discovered  him  fast  asleep,  blind  drunk  ;  he  had  just 
finished  up  the  remaining  rum  that  Milburn  had  given  him 
on  the  ship. 

As  we  watched  from  the  boat  we  saw  our  army  on  the 
shore,  struggling  along,  bearing  a  burden  with  them.  It 
was  the  fictitious  king  bound  and  lashed  hands  and  feet. 
Milburn  surveyed  him,  at  first  with  rage  and  then  with 
curiosity,  and  I  felt  rather  sorry  for  him  :  he  looked  so  differ- 
ent to  what  he  did  when  he  had  scornfully  gazed  at  us  on  the 
decks  of  the  Eldorado.  He  rolled  his  eyes,  slowly  realised 
his  position  and  hung  his  head,  looking  extremely  pathetic 
as  he  blinked  his  eyes  like  a  whipped  dog  and  looked  at  us 
appealingly  for  mercy.  Milburn  and  I  went  to  his  hut,  dis- 
covered nearly  all  the  cash  and  came  back  quickly  to  the 
boat.  "  You  killee  me  ?  "  he  said,  and  looked  steadily  at  us. 
"  I  say,  Milburn,"  I  said,  "  if  you  take  him  back  to  Apemama 
Tembinok  will  club  him,  and  you  must  remember  he's  only 
a  native,  and  after  all  the  skipper's  to  blame."  "  I  know 
that,"  said  Milburn ;  and  then  I  added :  "To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  rather  admire  this  old  chief,  when  I  think  of  the  clever 
way  he  simulated  kingship  and  took  us  all  in."  Milburn 
relented  ;  indeed  I  think  he  would  have  done  so  without  my 
saying  anything.  "  Unbind  him,"  he  said.  For  a  while  the 

322 


THE  STORM 

astonished  natives  stared,  and  then  they  unbound  him,  and 
Milburn  said :  "  You  can  go."  For  a  moment  the  chief 
looked  as  though  he  did  not  understand,  then  gave  us  both 
a  glance  of  real  gratitude  and  walked  off  majestically,  but 
rather  fast,  in  case  we  changed  our  minds. 

The  natives  got  their  cargo  from  the  schooner  in  the  bay 
and  I  received  my  hundred  pounds.  Tembinok  saw  us  off ; 
we  booked  as  passengers  on  the  Bella,  for  that  was  the  name 
of  the  schooner  that  came  in  the  nick  of  time  to  relieve 
our  minds  for  the  night  attack.  We  eventually  arrived  at 
Honolulu. 

Twelve  months  after  I  met  Milburn  again  in  Sydney  and 
he  turned  out  a  good  friend  to  me.  He  never  saw  the  skipper 
of  the  Eldorado  again,  for  the  man  left  his  ship  and  went  off 
to  South  America,  I  think. 

I  heard  of  Milburn  a  little  later  on  as  going  off  to  Paraguay 

on  the  s.s.  R ,  which  was  especially  fitted  out  for  taking 

a  modern  Mayflower  crew  to  start  a  socialistic  republic,  soon 
started  and  soon  ended,  for  the  colony  turned  out  as 
miserable  a  failure  as  when  Milburn  bought  Apemama. 

Milburn  was  not  my  friend's  real  name ;  it  seems  wiser 
not  to  give  that  here,  in  this  account  of  our  experiences 
together  in  the  South  Seas.  One  name  he  deserved,  that 
of  a  brave  comrade  and  a  gentleman. 

After  my  adventures  with  Milburn  I  left  Honolulu  in  a 
large  schooner  which  was  bound  for  Suva.  We  had  only 
been  out  three  days  when  a  hurricane  struck  us.  A  Cape 
Horn  slasher  was  nothing  compared  to  the  weather  we 
experienced.  I  was  standing  on  deck  smoking  with  several 
of  the  crew ;  some  of  them  were  natives.  A  soft  breeze 
came  up  and  increased  till  the  elements  moaned  with  a 
steady  hum,  as  the  sails  bellied  out  like  drums  and  the  foamy 
manes  of  white  horses  tossed  away  in  the  sunset ;  then  with 
a  thundering  moan  the  hurricane's  breath  struck  us.  The 
skipper  yelled  to  us.  "  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  we  shouted  back,  for 
a  half-blood  and  I  were  aloft  taking  sail  in ;  suddenly  the 
boat  lay  over  and  the  rigging  to  leeward  nearly  touched 
the  wave- crests. 

Darkness  slid  over  the  ocean  sky,  tremendous  seas  came 

323 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

up,  and  the  schooner  backed  and  shivered  like  a  frightened 
mammoth  thing  as  the  mountains  of  water  jumped  down 
on  her  deck.  I  fell  forward  on  my  face  beneath  the  liquid 
mass  and  gripped  the  deck  with  my  fingers  and  teeth  ! 
Crash  !  Crash  !  the  boats  were  carried  away.  I  heard  my 
chum  gasping  and  spitting  sea-water  beside  me.  The  sea 
cleared  and  the  wind  shot  up  my  legs — r-r-r — r-r-i-p — r-r — 
r-r-r-i-p  !  and  my  trousers  split  and  nearly  blew  away.  We 
scrambled  to  our  feet  and  clung  to  the  ropes.  "  Hold  on, 
lads,"  shouted  the  skipper,  and  we  did  hold  on  too  !  Scud 
was  flying  across  the  sky  and  the  moon  travelling  like  a 
yellow  racing  balloon  as  the  wrack  of  mist  flew  under  it. 
The  phosphorescent  blaze  that  lit  the  tossing  foam  of  the 
travelling  mountains  of  water  around  us  made  it  all  look  like 
a  ghostly  scene  of  chaos  ere  creation  ;  the  winds  cut  the 
hissing  wave-tops  off  as  though  invisible  giant  swords 
flashed  across  the  ghostly  ocean  darkness.  Then  another 
sea  came  over,  crash  !  right  over  the  galley.  The  cook  was 
washed  through  the  door,  still  clutching  the  pots  that  he  had 
been  trying  to  keep  on  the  galley  stove.  His  rapid  exit 
knocked  us  over  as  he  was  washed  by,  and  we  all  clutched 
each  other  and  bravely  held  on,  each  to  the  other,  to  save 
our  own  lives.  The  man  at  the  wheel  was  washed,  from  the 
poop  and  joined  us ;  the  skipper  took  his  place.  No  one 
was  lost ;  some  miracle  saved  the  boat  and  all  of  us  ;  the 
wind  howled  and  rushed  away  as  quickly  as  it  arrived. 

The  skipper  was  a  good  sort ;  he  had  sailed  in  the  black- 
birding  days  with  cargoes  of  natives  to  the  Isles  of  Mystery. 
Now  he  gave  us  rum,  and  we  were  the  happiest  crew  on  the 
high  seas  in  our  new  lease  of  life,  for  that  is  how  we  all  felt. 
Only  experience  could  paint  to  you  the  wildness  of  a  South 
Sea  hurricane,  and  what  we  sailors  felt  as  we  slid  along  the 
vessel's  deck  holding  on  to  each  other's  legs  and  hair  to 
prevent  ourselves  being  clutched  and  torn  away  into  the 
infinite  waters. 

We  put  into  Palmyra  Isle  and  made  things  ship-shape, 
and  then  left  for  Apia  and  Fiji,  where  I  left  the  boat  and 
took  a  steamer  for  New  South  Wales. 


324 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

My  England— Its  Chief  Stronghold— The  Island  Race— Barbaric 
Customs — Their  Code  of  Morals — A  Tribalistic  Clash — An 
English  Spring 

THIS  chapter  is  written  for  the  benefit  of  those  natives 
who  may  come  across  my  book  in  the  South  Sea 
Islands  and  elsewhere.  Of  course  I  know  England 
well,  because  I  am  an  Englishman.  I  escaped  from  my 
birthplace  at  an  early  age,  shipped  before  the  mast  of  a 
sailing-ship  and  roamed  the  world.  England  is  always  the 
dear  old  Homeland  to  me,  and  so  it  might  interest  my 
readers  if  I  include  reminiscences  of  my  own  country  in 
this  book. 

My  England  is  an  island  surrounded  by  open  sea  and 
Channel.  The  climate  is  variable ;  Atlantic  winds  blow 
over  it  and  copious  rains  drench  the  population  at  frequent 
intervals.  The  "survival  of  the  fittest"  theory  is  finely 
illustrated  by  the  athletic  appearance  of  the  native  stock  ; 
the  climate  kills  all  weaklings  at  birth. 

London  is  the  chief  stronghold  ;  battalions  of  pale-faced 
native  warriors  tramp  the  tracks  that  divide  the  mighty 
forests  of  gloomy  walls.  They  are  a  brave  tribe,  and  ever  on 
the  warpath  as  they  glide  along,  passing  under  historic 
arches  and  over  the  bridges  that  rib  their  old  river,  which  is 
called  the  Thames.  At  night,  when  the  stars  are  out  and 
the  moon  is  high  in  the  sky,  you  can  stand  on  those  bridges 
and  see  the  monuments  that  have  been  erected  to  com- 
memorate old  tribal  heroes.  The  spires  of  the  vast  city  for 
miles  and  miles  point  to  the  heavens,  under  the  pale,  glitter- 
ing stars,  like  outstretched  fingers  on  the  vast  hands  of  Pride. 

The  island  race  is  a  happy  one,  and  hope  springs  eternal 
in  the  native  breast.  If  no  sun  shines  this  summer,  still  they 
hope  on  till  the  next  summer. 

The  common  papalangi  or  serf  class  are  warrior-like  and 

325 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

cheerful  folk,  and  not  unlike  the  South  Sea  Island  races  in 
their  habits.  On  tribal  holidays  they  go  off  to  various 
resorts,  drink  toddy  and  do  war  dances  ;  many  appear  next 
morning  before  the  high  chiefs,  who  hear  with  solemn 
countenance  of  their  misdeeds  as  they  lean  on  the  official 
war-club  and  fine  them  five  dollars. 

The  aristocrats  are  similar  to  Fijian  and  Solomon  Islanders 
of  royal  blood,  for  they  are  cannibalistic ;  they  do  not  eat 
human  flesh,  but  they  live  on  the  blue  blood  that  runs  in 
their  veins  and  on  the  vigour  of  the  flesh  of  the  common 
natives.  Their  ancestry  is  similar  to  that  of  the  South  Sea 
Islanders — through  some  mighty  deed,  that  when  tested  by 
the  code  of  morals  appears  dubious,  their  line  is  famous  for 
ever.  They  have  a  Peerage  and  Who's  Who,  which  are  genea- 
logical and  tell  of  the  first  high  chief  in  the  family,  what  he  did 
and  what  they  do  now.  Their  chief  aim  is  to  forget  all  else 
and  produce  sons,  so  as  to  keep  the  tribal  name  going.  The 
camp  fires  have  disappeared  and  the  tribal  den  is  now  a 
mighty  residence  made  of  stone ;  on  the  walls  hang  ancestral 
weapons.  These  grandees  sit  beneath  them,  eat  and  drink 
well  and  no  longer  dye  their  bodies  with  woad. 

They  have  a  dreadful  inquisition  called  respectability ; 
once  in  its  clutches  the  common  natives  lose  their  intel- 
lectual equilibrium,  become  hollow-throated  and  cough  with 
a  windy  soullessness. 

Old  tribal  customs  are  fast  disappearing,  and  the  high 
chiefs  losing  their  power  and  influence  over  the  natives,  who 
are  becoming  well  educated  and  will  soon  own  the  country. 
Human  nature  will  still  be  the  same,  so  there  will  be  sixty 
or  seventy  million  kings,  as  many  kings  as  the  population 
amounts  to,  and  only  God  knows  what  will  happen  then. 

The  native  women  are  white  and  have  beautiful  blue  eyes, 
like  the  blue  of  your  skies.  They  wear  ridis  that  reach  to 
their  ankles.  Their  morals  are  excellent,  but,  like  their 
sisters  in  the  far  South  Seas,  some  of  them  still  retain  the 
old  instincts  and  fall  before  the  temptation  of  the  white 
man,  and  the  fallen  maid  takes  all  the  blame. 

If  one  stops  a  chief  or  his  wife  on  the  forest  track  and 
says,  "  Aloha  !  Mitai  Chipi,"  and  grasps  their  hand  in  true 

326 


FOR  SOUTH  SEA  NATIVES  ONLY ! 

friendship,  one  is  liable  to  be  taken  before  the  high  chief 
and  fined  five  hundred  dollars. 

The  forest  idols  are  gone,  but  the  natives  still  kneel  in 
amphitheatres,  before  stone  images,  where  they  hold  festi- 
vals, and  their  old  high  priest  accepts  confessional  bribes  and 
then  forgives  them  their  sins — which  are  many. 

The  old-time  convivial  spirit  has  passed  away ;  you 
cannot  jump  in  the  island  lagoons  unless  fully  dressed. 
Many  of  the  old  barbaric  customs  are  still  in  vogue,  but  are 
practised  in  secret.  They  have  wild  festivals,  still  play 
tom-toms,  big  drums  and  reeds,  and  whirl  round  and  round 
in  the  old  tribalistic  Siva  dance,  clinging  to  each  other's 
bodies  and  gazing  lasciviously  into  each  other's  blue  eyes. 
Their  fantoes,1  instead  of  being  carried  on  their  mothers' 
backs  in  the  old  primitive  basket,  are  wheeled  along  in 
vehicles  to  an  advanced  age ;  and  dominate  the  native  villages 
and  the  lives  of  the  chiefs.  There  is  no  camping  out  now  ; 
free  dens  have  disappeared.  For  camping  in  the  forest  as  of 
old,  one  is  liable  to  get  fastened  up  between  stone  walls  for 
six  months.  One  cannot  pick  coco-nuts,  yams  and  bread- 
fruit if  one  is  hungry. 

There  is  an  organization  for  starving  natives,  presided  over 
by  high  chiefs  with  cheerless,  glassy  eyes.  The  elder  natives 
have  to  apologise  for  being  old  when  they  go  there ;  but  most 
of  them  when  they  are  hungry  run  for  their  lives,  and  starve 
to  death  sooner  than  approach  the  organization's  cave 
kindness.  The  poor-class  natives  drink  a  mysterious  con- 
coction made  from  a  herb  called  the  hop,  and  the  high  chiefs 
drink  stuff  called  kava,  or  whisky.  When  those  high  chiefs 
are  sober,  they  become  solemn ;  and  hold  councils  for  putting 
down  the  drinking  of  hop-toddy.  All  the  native  girls  aspire 
to  marry  chiefs.  The  code  of  morals  is  so  peculiar  that 
thousands  of  them  die  childless  and  mateless. 

They  are  withal  a  brave,  warrior-like  race ;  and  at  present 
are  engaged  in  one  of  their  old  tribalistic  clashes  with  another 
tribe,  of  a  group  that  lies  not  far  from  their  own  isle ;  a  blood- 
thirsty race  that  are  at  heart  still  cannibalistic.  The  king 
of  this  other  tribe  is  somewhat  like  old  Thakambau,  the  late 

1  Children. 
327 


A  VAGABOND'S  ODYSSEY 

Fijian  Emperor  of  the  Cannibal  Isles  ;  he  pretends  to  have 
embraced  Christianity,  but  his  real  god  is  the  high  chief 
Krupp.  I  feel  sorry  for  him,  for  the  islanders  are  sure  to  get 
hold  of  him  and  he  will  wish  he  had  embraced  their  creed. 
Several  other  warrior  tribes  are  crashing  away  with  the  island 
natives  ;  they  charge  well  and  sing  fine  old  war-songs.  It  is 
much  safer  at  present  to  live  in  the  Solomon  Isles. 

The  island  country  is  very  beautiful.  In  the  springtime 
the  landscapes  and  valleys  are  dotted  with  yellow  things 
called  primroses ;  other  wild  flowers  grow  on  the  hedgerow 
banks.  Little  birds  sing  in  old  trees  to  the  sunsets  ;  the 
grass  grows,  and  grows  high  ere  they  cut  it  down.  The 
woods  smell  of  peat ;  the  native  homesteads  in  the  villages 
burn  wood,  and  you  can  smell  its  delightful  odour  along 
the  lanes  as  you  tramp  by.  It  is  a  beautiful  country ;  but 
violin-playing,  music  and  poetry  are  not  appreciated  by 
the  natives  as  they  are  appreaiated  in  the  South  Seas. 

But  still  I  love  the  memory  of  the  hedgerows,  wild  flowers 
and  far-off  hills,  and  the  remains  of  the  old  forests  wherein 
long  ago  their  ancestors  camped;  by  old  hills  where  the 
young  lambs  bleat  in  the  springtime  and  wild  birds  sing 
in  leafy  woods  and  hollows.  -I  hope  in  the  end  I  shall 
be  buried  somewhere  near  where  the  wind  and  the  wild 
blackbird  sing;  and  not  very  far  from  the  shores  of  the 
sea,  where  their  ships  go  down  Channel  with  sailors 
outbound  for  distant  lands. 


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